


The Light of the Waning Moon

by arthureameslove



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bottom Newt, But not to Newt bc he's smitten, Fluff, Graves is one cold bastard when he wants to be, Hurt/Comfort, I promise this will have a happy ending, M/M, Mystery, Newt Scamander is very smart and capable, Percival Graves is canonically the most attractive person anyone has ever seen, Plotty, Political Intrigue, Protective Original Percival Graves, Smitten Newt Scamander, Top Percival, he'll have you know, try to juggle these plot elements with me guys, we have it all folks, werewolf Percival Graves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-23 17:48:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13792905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthureameslove/pseuds/arthureameslove
Summary: Percival Graves is the Director of MACUSA. Percival Graves is a powerful auror. Percival Graves is a werewolf. Newt knows these things as fact, has admired how these things have driven the man to create some of the most influential, progressive legislation for lycanthropes that the world has ever seen. He expects to feel admiration when he finally meets the man. He does not expect the jarring, dizzying desire he feels, nor does he expect to see it reflected in those pensive, dark eyes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was absolutely taken with the idea of Graves being a werewolf, and I hope after this you all will be too. ;)  
> Also there will be plot  
> soon

Newt had finally been able to take up Tina’s offer to give him a proper tour of the Woolworth building. He was back in the country, having finished his book, technically in the state to rehabilitate a young nest of kneazles from an underground breeder. Really he had mostly been ecstatic for an opportunity to see Tina, Queenie, and Jacob again.

Things were much less hectic this time around, with Grindelwald now safely in custody in Europe. It was also nice to visit the Woolworth as a guest and not in shackles as had so often been the case during the last run around. People actually recognized him as he walked through the halls with Tina—admittedly the attention made his cheeks go red and his heart start to flutter nervously, but with Tina by his side it felt less terrifying than if he'd been alone. It had certainly never been his intention to become somewhat of a celebrity around the offices, but he couldn't do anything about it now.

Newt dug out a copy of his book as soon as they'd reached Tina’s office—he was so glad her original position had been reinstated—and Tina beamed at him. “It’s finished?” she asked, taking hold of it with a grin. “How much?”

Newt scoffed. “I couldn't think to charge,” he said, his hands twisting absentmindedly.

Tina leaned against the desk, tsking, and began to flip through the pages. “Newt, you’ll never see any revenue if you keep handing these things out,” Tina scolded fondly.

Newt looked down with a quiet huff, fighting off a grin. “It was never really about that anyway,” he said.

Tina stopped on a particular page and glanced up, a question on her lips, but the door to her office banged open, and a man stormed in, radiating power and a quiet rage. His face was familiar.

Newt froze. While Tina was in the man’s direct line of sight, Newt was off to the right of the door, for the moment hidden. At first glance the man was impeccably dressed, tall and imposing, with a handsome face, though it was twisted in a scowl. Newt remembered that face well, though he had only known the imposter.

Tina straightened, her face going slightly pale. “Sir—”

“I've been parading,” Percival Graves glowered, teeth glittering dangerously as he grit them, “in front of those buffoons in court for twenty minutes waiting on that data from you, Goldstein. Even incompetents can only be stalled for so long.”

“I-I’m sorry, sir,” Tina said, voice initially far higher than it was normally. “I thought you needed them—”

“Twenty minutes ago would have been acceptable, _yesterday,_ ” Graves growled, and Newt was taken aback for a moment when the word was actually a _growl_ , the sound coming low and deep from the man’s chest, “would have been preferable.” There was a brief silence in which Tina blinked, and Graves snapped, “ _now,_ Goldstein, before I demote _you_ for incompetence.”

Tina jolted into action, practically lunging behind her desk and rifling through drawers.

Newt merely wished, desperately, that he could be elsewhere, trying to blend into the wallpaper. It didn't work, unfortunately. As soon as Graves’ attention left Tina, his dark eyes found Newt, his head tilting curiously. He came closer and eyed Newt up and down, the look assessing. Newt registered the scent of the man’s aftershave, like pine and cedar, and couldn't help but notice the darkening of the man’s eyes as he looked Newt over.

Newt swallowed nervously, and Graves’ eyes dropped to the movement of his throat, growing darker still.

A loud clang came from the center of the room when Tina accidentally knocked something off the table in her haste and Newt saw the man twitch almost imperceptibly the instant it hit the ground, his head whipping back to look at Tina as he snarled wordlessly.

Tina appeared next to them as quickly as if she'd apparated, and held out a large bound file, eyes wide. Graves snatched it, gave Newt one final, unreadable glance, and marched out, the swirl of his black coat almost mesmerizing.

He and Tina silently stared at the open doorway for a moment. “Was that...?” Newt squeaked.

“Director Graves,” Tina confirmed, her eyes still slightly wide.

Newt blinked at the door in awe. He’d always wanted to meet Percival Graves. While he wasn’t exactly an advocate of magical creatures as Newt was, the man was pivotal in turning the tide for werewolf rights, both in his political leanings and in the nature of his position. A decade ago it had been rare for a werewolf to be able to find decent employment. Now one filled the second most powerful seat in the state, and there were none more qualified. Percival Graves had shattered expectations and prejudices with an inherent grace and prowess as if he were born to it. While there were still those that distrusted him simply because of the lycanthropy, certainly several in Congress, MACUSA had never functioned more efficiently than when Director Graves was at the helm.

It was why Newt had been so eager to meet him on his first visit. To know someone of such influence with the same views of werewolves—and perhaps of magical creatures, Newt had hoped—would be incredibly valuable. Newt had been crushed and subsequently horrified by the man he’d initially met, clearly spurred by ulterior motives and uncaring of who he hurt in the process, but it hadn’t been Graves in the end. Admittedly, Newt had been relieved to find an explanation for it all in Grindelwald, but it still begged the question of where the true Percival Graves was. Whether he was still alive at all.

With the help of veritaserum Grindelwald revealed he’d kept the man under magical sedation so he could be free to ingredients for polyjuice potion. It had allowed him to _“avoid,”_ Grindelwald had murmured, cackling, _“the trouble of having to restrain the man_ and _the wolf.”_

Unfortunately, Newt had had to return to London before he could meet the rescued Director properly—the Ministry had found an injured infant kelpie washed up on the banks of the English Channel and had contacted Newt for his expertise.

Newt, of course, had no regrets helping the kelpie—he’d named her Susan and she was now completely rehabilitated—but he hadn’t been eager to leave so soon. Now, he’d finally had his chance to meet Graves, and instead he’d stood slack jawed and tongue-tied. Wonderful.

“He’s really a wonderful man,” Tina told him, a strange note to her voice as if she wanted to _assure,_ and Newt glanced at her confusedly, meeting her earnest gaze. He wondered if perhaps his look of awe had been mistaken for mild terror. “It’s just,” she continued, lowering her voice slightly, “he gets a little bit testy when it gets close to...”

“The full moon,” Newt finished for her, still staring pensively at the doorway. He sighed. He wasn’t staying very long this time—it would likely only take about two weeks to help with the kneazles. Perhaps fate just didn’t intend for his and the Director’s paths to properly cross.

* * *

He ate those words merely half an hour later. Newt had entered the elevator to return to the ground floor, fully intending to head to the Goldstein’s flat where he’d left the case. Strangely enough, there was no presence of the elf that usually operated the elevator, though the thing seemed to work fine enough on its own, so Newt initially paid it no mind. The doors were just beginning to shut, the interior shockingly devoid of anyone else given the busy time of day, when an arm shot inside and stopped their closing.

As the doors opened back up, Percival Graves, all impeccably dressed, devastatingly good looking, and scowling, stepped inside. Newt froze and stared at the wall, the surprise of seeing the man again so soon making his mind go blank. What should he do? Ask him how his day was going? Would that be strange, given that he technically didn’t know who Newt was? Newt supposed he could open with some question about werewolf rights, but would the man take it well or would he find it offensive in some way? He had already come in scowling, Newt didn’t want to push his luck.

Newt could feel the man’s eyes on him, studying him quietly, and Newt’s mind flashed back to the way they’d gone dark in Tina’s office. Just as he was about to break the silence, the elevator groaned, and stuttered unnaturally to a stop in between floors, the light above flickering slightly. Newt glanced up at it, heart sinking, and thought, _bugger._

Graves sighed explosively, leaning close to Newt in order to reach for the control switch. Newt caught a hint of his aftershave again, his eyes unwittingly drawn to the sharp line of Graves’ jaw in front of Newt’s face as he fiddled with the controls. He truly, Newt thought dazedly, had a very beautiful profile, the gently sloping line of his nose and throat almost elegant.

Graves’ hand—with long, graceful fingers, Newt couldn’t help but note—hovered over the panel, but after a moment he dropped it with a muttered curse. “Figures,” he said under his breath, glaring at the uncooperative thing, “Red goes home with Vanishing sickness and the whole system goes to shit.”

Newt glanced at him wide-eyed after a silence, and wondered if he should have responded. Graves had turned his gaze on him after a moment, staring pensively. “Mr. Scamander,” Graves murmured, tilting his head, “isn’t it?” His voice, softer now that it was directed at Newt, was low and warm, like a tendril of woodsmoke curling around the air. Newt blinked, processing the words.

“Oh—God, no,” Newt blurted automatically, before he mentally smacked himself and added hurriedly at the look of brief confusion on Graves’ face, “I mean, yes. Technically. But not ‘Mister.’ It’s Newt, just Newt. I’m hardly deserving of a ‘Mister’ anyway.”

Though Graves’ expression had hardly changed other than the slight raise of his eyebrows as Newt continued to ramble, he thought there was something distinctly amused in the set of Graves’ mouth. “Hardly deserving?” Graves repeated, raising an eyebrow. “I'm inclined to disagree. I’ve been told I have you to thank for my even being here.”

Newt flushed, glancing down, trying to calm his reaction to the easy praise in the man’s warm tone. “W-Well. I’m sure I wasn’t—it wasn’t like I was...integral. By any means. It was mostly the veritaserum to thank. And Tina,” he made sure to add, snapping his gaze up again and _oh._ Oh, that was definitely a small smile beginning to form at the corner of Graves’ mouth. It was a very nice mouth. Bowed and soft looking...

“I’m well aware of Auror Goldstein’s part,” Graves told him, voice somewhat distant as his eyes studied Newt’s face again. Newt couldn’t help but redden slightly under the scrutiny.

“Well, I’m glad,” Newt blurted again, nerves practically pushing the words out of him. “That you’re back, I mean. And that you’re...you,” he finished somewhat lamely, scrunching his nose up briefly at how stupid it sounded.

Now it was Graves’ eyes that were gleaming with amusement. “Thank you.” The man paused briefly, then added slowly, warmly, “Newt,” as if tasting the name on his tongue.

The sound of his name mingled with the low rasp of the man’s voice was unexpectedly jarring, sending a jolt down Newt’s spine. He blushed and bit his lip. Graves’ eyes darkened again, the man taking a sudden breath, and leaning the slightest bit towards Newt almost unconsciously.

Newt frowned in confusion, before realization and mortification hit at once. The man was a _werewolf,_ he had probably smelled Newt’s interest in him a mile off. Oh, god, this was probably grounds for some kind of workplace harassment, wasn’t it, because even though Newt technically didn’t work for MACUSA there was the growing insinuation from President Picquery that they’d call upon him to do consulting work.

Thankfully, the elevator chose that moment to jolt into motion again, drawing Graves’ attention away. Newt didn't quite understand the simultaneous mix of relief and regret for the loss of the man’s scrutiny. Graves said nothing more until the elevator stopped at the ground floor, turning back to him as the doors opened to say, “a pleasure to finally meet you, Newt,” in his warm, vaguely amused tone, before walking away.

Newt, still somewhat shell-shocked by the fact that he may have been broadcasting his desire for the man to see, remained where he was standing, startling into movement only as people began to barge in.

Bugger.

* * *

It was raining when he left the building, already growing dark, a chill in the air. It was the tail end of Autumn in New York and the trees lining the street were stripped and bare. Newt grinned at the feeling of rain on his face, stopping against the side of the building in order to allow people to pass by him. Those going home from the workday barely looked up, huddled in their coats and their magic keeping them from getting wet.

The bite of the wind had yet to fully pierce through Newt’s coat, so he enjoyed the feeling for a moment longer. He’d always loved the rain.

A distant, pitiful sound drew him from his thoughts. He startled, glancing around and listening intently to see where it had come from. He heard it again and traced the sound to a ventilation grate at the base of the building.

Crouching down, he peered inside, illuminating the darkness with his wand, and saw a small, black cat huddled in the corner, completely soaked. “Oh, you poor thing,” Newt murmured, eyeing the grate to determine how he might get it off. “How on earth did you get in there?”

The grate slots were perhaps large enough for very small creature to fit, but certainly not large enough for Newt to reach through. He studied it with a frown. With his wand, he murmured a spell that melted the metal away from the edges, being very careful not to make too much noise. He didn’t want to scare the poor thing. The grate came away from the building with a low creak and Newt set it aside.

He reached down into the vent, keeping his movements slow and nonthreatening. After a few minutes, he managed to coax the cat closer and slowly drew it out. The poor thing was small enough he could carry it up with one hand. He cradled it to his chest, trying to warm it up a bit. He didn’t think it was in very bad shape, judging by how it began to mewl and squirm as soon as it was in his arms. It had likely just accidentally slipped inside during the sudden storm.

“What are you doing?” a sharp voice reprimanded from behind.

Newt whirled around to see Graves, likely having just left the Woolworth, glowering at him. He was still dry, almost regal looking as raindrops diverted around the sheen of effortless magic over his head. His eyes dropped to the cat in Newt’s arms. The cat immediately hissed, squirming violently, and Newt dropped to a crouch to let it back onto the pavement. It scampered off as soon as he let go, looking no worse for wear. “Ah,” Newt murmured cheerily, “well, I’m glad it seems alright. Certainly alright enough to run away, at any rate.”

Graves furrowed his brow, staring at him with a kind of searching gaze that made Newt’s heart beat a little faster. The man frowned when he noticed the ruined grate at the side of the building, and Newt flushed sheepishly. “Sorry. I can pay for that.”

Graves’ gaze snapped back to him, the look growing more displeased when he gave Newt a curt once over. “You’re soaked,” he said. Then, more irritably, “it’s forty degrees out.”

Newt blinked, glancing down at himself. It was, he could admit, perhaps a little colder than was comfortable. As if his body only needed his mind’s confirmation, he began to shiver slightly. Even though he recognized the futility of it, Newt tried to wrap his drenched coat tighter around him. Frowning, Graves came closer so his magic was near enough to give Newt cover as well. Newt was about to stutter out a thank you when Graves extended a hand, a look of concentration on his face, and brushed Newt’s cheek lightly. Newt snapped his mouth shut at the gentle touch, eyes wide, and it took a moment for him to realize that he was now completely dry. “O-oh,” he managed through chattering teeth, feeling rather like a deer in the headlights when he met Graves’ steady, dark eyes. “T-thank you.”

Graves stared for a moment more, before sighing again and shrugging out of his coat. It took Newt a moment for his brain to catch up with what was happening. “Oh, n-no,” he protested, “I couldn’t—”

“Take it,” Graves murmured, giving Newt a firm look as he draped it around Newt’s shoulders. “You’re shaking like a leaf.”

Newt clutched at it wordlessly, shocked into silence as he registered the warmth of the fabric and the fact that it smelled like Graves. “You’re staying with the Goldsteins?” Graves asked him.

Newt nodded, not trusting himself with a coherent verbal answer. Graves was very close, Newt could practically feel the warmth radiating off of him as well as from the coat, and the proximity sent his stomach fluttering nervously. Up close, Graves was dizzyingly handsome, and the sparse distance between them sent Newt’s mind entertaining wild thoughts of pressing kisses to his jaw, tangling his fingers in his hair and mussing up the perfection a bit. Luckily, Graves didn’t seem to notice, his attention on making sure the folds of his coat covered Newt’s chest. Newt wasn’t quite shivering from the cold anymore, but he wouldn’t be the one to correct Graves’ assumption.

Graves met his eyes as he settled the flaps of the coat, after a moment offering Newt his arm. “May I take you there?” he asked.

Newt flushed again. “You don’t...have to,” he assured. Surely he’d been enough trouble for Graves for the day. “I know where it is.”

“I’m sure,” Graves murmured, that small, amused turn to his lips returning. “But you seem the type to get sidetracked,” he said wryly, giving a pointed glance to the broken grate. “I’d rather see you there personally.”

Newt couldn't help but bristle a bit at the implication. “That's very chivalrous,” Newt commented dryly, trying to feel irritated and not flustered when Graves’ smile widened at the words, “but I can assure you I'm fully capable of handling things myself.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Graves said, voice a low rumble as he leaned slightly closer, and _oh_ , Newt thought, that just wasn't _fair_. Graves’ lips quirked into an even larger smile when he saw the red that crept onto Newt’s cheeks and Newt couldn't help but drop his gaze to it. He'd even seen a brief flash of white teeth. He wondered if he would ever see a full smile. Surely it would be beautiful enough that it would be impossible to look away. “But I'd be grateful if you indulged me,” the man murmured, his voice warm, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly.

Oh, this just wasn't fair at all.

“Alright,” Newt answered breathlessly, slowly setting his hand on Graves’ arm.

Newt was no stranger to apparition, but it was a little harder to catch his breath than usual when they touched ground in front of the Goldsteins’ apartment building. Newt turned to Graves, words catching in his throat when he realized how close they were. Their lips were a few inches apart and Graves’ eyes were on his. Though they were unreadable as always, Newt thought he saw something soft in the look. “Thank you,” Newt murmured after a moment, breaking the heavy silence, in which there was only the sound of the rain pattering down around them.

“Of course,” Graves answered easily, though he made no move to back away.

Newt realized his hand was still on Graves’ arm and he quickly dropped it, a blush again tinging his cheeks. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly feeling incredibly dry. Newt didn't miss the way Graves’ eyes tracked the motion, the brown of them almost black in the low light. He also didn't miss the way the magic parting the rain above them stuttered slightly in the same moment, letting some drops through. Newt tried and failed not to think on what it meant that _he_ could cause such a lack of concentration. Newt couldn't quite think straight with those eyes on him, heady and dark and mesmerizing. “Goodnight,” he practically gasped out, trying to shake himself out of his stupor. “Director Graves.”

“Goodnight,” Graves murmured. Tilting his head slightly, he added, “Newt,” in that low voice that seemed to reverberate straight to Newt’s core.

Graves’ magic kept him dry until he entered the building, his eyes watching the moment until Newt closed the door and leaned back against it, steadying himself.

He realized a few moments later that he was still wearing Graves’ coat and it still carried the scent of him, like pine and cedar, and that, if he closed his eyes, Newt could almost fool himself into believing Graves was still there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow there's like actual plot in this chapter  
> it's a bit darker than the last one but these two still find time to pine for each other like jesus get a room

Queenie was practically squirming in her seat that morning, as she had been the last few mornings, grinning at Newt with those knowing eyes gleaming. Newt, as had become custom, avoided her glances and steadfastly buried his nose in his tea, bemoaning the fact he couldn't drown himself in it. Queenie had known absolutely everything the moment he’d locked eyes with her. It was honestly a wonder she hadn't mentioned any of it to the others yet, she seemed practically bursting at the seams with glee every time she glanced over at him. Queenie was always fond of playing matchmaker. “So,” she murmured, chin resting on her hand, head tilted, “Newt, honey. Anything...new?”

Newt met her gaze with trepidation. Perhaps his grace period had finally run its course. 

Jacob glanced between them in the midst of biting a piece of toast. “You alright, buddy?” he asked, staring at Newt with a concerned expression. “Your face is beet red.”

Newt groaned and and dropped his head into his arms. 

“Um...?” came Jacob’s voice, followed by Queenie’s whispered, “he’s pining, hun.”

“I am  _ not, _ ” Newt protested into his arms. Because he wasn't. That would be ridiculous and childish and thoroughly a waste of time. Especially considering he hadn’t even seen the man in days, and who knew if Graves even remembered him. 

Because men like Percival Graves weren't known for bothering with Magizoologists with a penchant for chaos. 

“Oh, don’t think like that,” Queenie scolded immediately. “We’ve all been where you are, practically everyone in the Department has swooned over Director Graves at one point or another. Besides,” she added, eyes bright, “from what I saw I wouldn’t say it’s one-sided.”

Newt felt red creep onto his cheeks and he unwittingly thought of the coat that remained in his room—he hadn’t yet had an opportunity to give it back.

Jacob grinned at him. “This Director fella must be something. I’ve never seen you interested in anyone before.”

Newt sighed at their twin looks of encouragement. As if he needed any help stirring up his ridiculous hopes. “Oh, look at the time,” he muttered, “I really must feed my creatures—”

“You haven’t finished your breakfast!” Queenie protested, but Newt was already swiping his tea from the table and heading to the guest room. He would have made it successfully into his case if hadn’t been for Tina apparating directly in his path. 

Newt nearly dropped his tea in surprise, though he set it down a moment later when he registered Tina’s expression, pale and pinched. “Is everything alright?” he asked.

Tina nodded, pressing her lips together. “Yes. No. I mean, it’s just...this case...” She bit her lip. “I was hoping,” she said carefully, meeting Newt’s eyes, “that you might be able to help us identify what did it.”

Newt frowned. It wasn’t unusual for him to occasionally offer his help to MACUSA, even if just through correspondence, so he wondered why Tina seemed subtly agitated. “You think it’s the work of a creature?” he asked.

Tina nodded again, her expression troubled and mingled with fatigue. She’d been called to work earlier than usual that morning—this case must’ve been the reason, likely involving something complicated given how long it’d been since she left. “It’s likely, judging by the damage. There’s a running theory but it’s one...no one’s particularly fond of.”

Newt studied her expression, concerned. “Should I bring the case?”

Tina shook her head, a brief look of frustration passing over her face. “No. We already combed the area. There’s nothing in the vicinity.”

“The vicinity of...what exactly?” Newt asked, though he had already guessed what the answer might be. 

“The two nomajes,” Tina answered grimly, “who were killed last night.”

* * *

Tina apparated them both to Central Park where the bodies had been found. Newt immediately registered the sheer number of aurors, almost as many as he remembered in the subway tunnel with Grindelwald, and yet despite the amount of people it was strangely quiet, the eerie silence only broken by a low murmuring. Tina led him into a large, magically cordoned off area, the barrier glimmering and discouraging any passing muggles from even glancing their way, powerful as it was. It enclosed a grove of trees off of a running path by the park reservoir. The water gleamed in the gentle morning light, but the beauty of the day was a stark contrast to the grim air that was palpable among the aurors. When he peered around where several of them were taking notes, Newt’s gaze immediately fell on the two tarp covered figures on the ground a few yards away, and the ominous red that ran through the grass around them. Newt briefly registered Tina say something to him about having to speak with someone, so he nodded distractedly, only half-listening.

He made his way over to the bodies slowly, his eyes fixed on them, a growing dread in his stomach, and something important nagging just out of reach in the back of his mind. The deaths had obviously been violent, judging by the amount of blood. He was close enough to see a pale hand poking out from underneath the tarp before he was stopped by a sudden weight on his shoulder. Newt shook himself out of the haze, expecting the hand on his shoulder to be Tina’s, but when he turned it was Graves who stared back at him, a severe expression on his face quickly replaced with one of confusion. 

But there was something in between the two expressions, a brief flash of something that looked like pleased surprise when he recognized Newt, that sent Newt’s heart thumping wildly. 

“Newt,” Graves murmured, dark gaze flicking over Newt’s shoulder for a moment before meeting his eyes again. He shook his head slightly, brow furrowed. “What are you doing here? This is a restricted crime scene.”

Newt wished he wasn't always so tongue-tied around the man, but this time around it was less because he was floored by Graves’ proximity and more because of how he appeared much worse for wear than Newt had seen him last. The man looked exhausted, dark smudges under his eyes and skin a shade too pale, like he'd been up and working for a long time. Newt fought the urge to ask if he was alright. “Tina,” he answered, clearing his throat, “she brought me, thought I might be able to help identify whatever creature has done this.” 

“Mm, I remember accounts of those creatures of yours,” Graves said, quirking a small, tired smile that Newt barely caught when he glanced back. Really, it was utterly ridiculous how even a glimpse of that smile sent his thoughts scattering. “You're a Magizoologist, correct?”

Newt blinked, surprised and pleased. Most wizards didn't even know what a Magizoologist  _ was _ . “I am,” he confirmed, biting down on a smile. 

Graves’ eyes darted down to Newt’s mouth briefly, before quickly snapping back up, a shade darker than they had been. “Right,” he said, a strange note to his voice, but before Newt could process it _ ,  _ Graves’ expression grew serious, his gaze once again flicking over Newt’s shoulder for a moment. At the bodies. “Well, I hope you’ll be able to give us some new theory.”

Newt frowned. It was similar to what Tina had said. “What's the current one?”

Graves met his eyes and Newt was once again struck by how very tired he looked as he quirked a humorless smile, more of a grimace. “I'm sure you’ll know when you see them.”

Graves was right. As soon as the tarps were removed and the damage was revealed, the pieces clicked into place. The grim countenance of the aurors, the reason Graves looked so very exhausted. 

Last night had been a full moon.

Newt tried not to flinch at the initial sight of the bodies, taking a breath and closing his eyes briefly. Their eyes were still wide open, clouded over with death. “It’s...absolutely certain they were killed last night?” Newt asked carefully, glancing at Graves, who’d been watching him with an unreadable expression.

“Our diagnostic spells indicate so, as well as the state of rigor mortis,” Graves answered. “About 11 p.m. was the closest estimate.”

Newt nodded, reluctantly turning his gaze to the bodies and crouching down to study them more closely. There was a man and a woman, both sporting a large, jagged gash running from mid chest to just below the naval, entrails spilling out around them. Their deaths were quick, the wounds no doubt almost immediately fatal. There wasn’t even time for shock or fear to register on their faces. The damage was certainly done by something large, powerful, clawed. But no creature like that was  _ native  _ to New York. Except perhaps the most obvious candidate. 

And yet, the thought didn’t quite sit right, didn’t  _ fit.  _ The wounds were too clean. It certainly didn’t look it initially, with the amount of blood and the jagged edges, but there was only the one fatal swipe on each victim, largely similar in length and depth. It was all too...practiced, methodical. “Do  _ you _ think it was a werewolf?” Newt murmured unthinkingly, glancing up at Graves to catch the tail end of...something, the tick of a muscle in his jaw, a tilting of the head. His gaze had just snapped back to Newt’s, the look in them briefly distracted from whatever he’d been looking at.

“I would be a fool,” Graves said, carefully, slowly, intelligent eyes giving away nothing, “if I were to discount the most likely perpetrator.”

“But you don’t believe it,” Newt asserted, carefully watching Graves’ face for some sign of confirmation. 

There was none, not really, but Newt noticed his eyes drawn away again and quickly followed his gaze, finding it on Tina and a man Newt hadn’t seen before, smartly dressed, light-haired, and frowning, gesturing angrily where Tina looked to be placating. When Newt looked back at Graves those dark eyes were on him again. “Can you say definitively what this was?” Graves asked evenly.

Newt pressed his lips together and glanced back at the bodies. He ran through every creature he knew of that might be found in the area that could also kill violently and effectively. There was only one that made sense given the circumstances and location. Werewolves populated cities all the time. But it felt wrong. He eyed the prone figures, that word again nagging at the back of his mind.  _ Clean.  _ Too clean. If there had just been one victim, Newt’s mind would have jumped to the obvious and stayed there. Instead, there were two, with wounds that too similarly mirrored each other. Werewolf attacks were never so systematic.

“Mr. Scamander, you look very pale, do you need some air?” Graves asked suddenly.

Newt frowned up at him, confused. He didn't  _ feel  _ very pale. Graves gave him a quick, severe look that very clearly said  _ don't argue _ , offering Newt his hand. Newt took it, rising, trying to keep blatant befuddlement off of his face. “Wha—?” he began, cutting off immediately and red creeping onto his cheeks when Graves’ hand came to rest at the small of his back, a warm, guiding weight.

Graves led him past the crowd of aurors and they came upon the edge of the magical barrier. Newt glanced at him, but his eyes were distant, expression unreadable. They passed through, the magic running over Newt’s skin like drops of rain. Graves finally stopped at the railing bordering the reservoir, his hand lingering for a moment more. Graves dropped it when he rested his arms on the barricade and looked out onto the water, and Newt tried not to fixate on the residual warmth or the loss. 

He also tried very hard not to stare when Graves didn’t immediately say anything else, continuously glancing at Graves and back at the water. He failed in not noticing the wind rustling Graves’ hair, or the line of his jaw, or the soft brown of his eyes when the light hit them. Newt could almost trick himself into thinking it was a normal day, far from the scene as they were, with muggles clustered similarly by the waterfront. There was a man on a bench to their left and a couple, embraced, murmuring, and looking out onto the water, a few yards to the right. The wind picked up, so it was impossible to hear what they were saying, but Newt couldn’t help but compare the space he’d seen between them and the space between he and Graves. There wasn’t much difference. Out of a sudden need to fill the silence, Newt blurted rather obviously, “I didn’t feel particularly pale, Mr. Graves.”

Graves’ mouth twitched into the briefest smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “No, you didn’t really look it either. But,” he said, a brief line of tension appearing as he clenched his jaw, “I didn’t really have a desire to speak plainly with those aurors listening in on every word.”

Newt frowned at him, an immediate protest coming to his throat when Tina came to mind. “You don’t trust your aurors?”

“Oh, I trust my aurors implicitly, Mr. Scamander,” Graves said, dark eyes staring at him. “But half of them aren’t  _ my  _ aurors.” Before Newt could process what that meant, Graves was asking, gaze steady, “you don’t think it was a werewolf attack. Why?”

“It’s too clean,” Newt answered slowly, still determining the exact reasoning himself. “Werewolf attacks are known for being brutally messy, chaotic, unfocused. They’re more likely to leave serious injuries than mortal wounds, but these blows were both instantly fatal.” Graves nodded along as he spoke, clearly listening intently. 

“And the fact that it occurred on a full moon?” Graves pressed.

Newt sighed. There was where his initial misgivings fell apart. There weren't any other creatures he knew of that killed specifically on those days of the month. “It...could just be a coincidence?” he suggested weakly.

Graves shook his head, glancing out onto the water. “I don't put much stock in coincidences, Newt, and it practically sets my teeth on edge that all the circumstances of this case feel very  _ conveniently _ coincidental.”

“What do you mean?”

Graves eyed him for a moment and Newt couldn't help but note the calculating angle to it, the sharp, decisiveness when Graves finally murmured, “I mean the fact that this case arises just as I'm gaining traction for a piece of legislation that has the potential to make a lot of very powerful men very angry.”

“What kind of legislation?” Newt asked slowly, watching Graves’ expression. Nothing telling fell through that he could see, but Graves tilted his head slightly at the question. 

“You know the Concord Amendment?” Graves asked after a moment.

“Yes,” Newt answered easily. “It made it illegal to discriminate against werewolves for employment.”

“Mm. Only it led to the exploitation of werewolves as cheap labor,” Graves murmured darkly. “The bill I’m pushing now seeks to remedy that by enforcing stable wages and ensuring justice for those who’ve been exploited. But I’ve met plenty of opposition from men who have grown  _ coincidentally  _ very wealthy in the wake of the Concord Amendment, and who stand to lose very much if the bill is passed and any evidence of misconduct comes to light. Who would be very glad,” he said slowly, purposefully, “of anything that might stop the bill in its tracks.”

Newt stared at him, horrified at the implication. “You think someone arranged the deaths of those people,” he whispered, “and made it look like a werewolf attack?”

“I think,” Graves said slowly, thumb tapping against the metal railing, “it would be unwise to discount any possibilities, but in the 24 years since any werewolf attack in New York it’s a little too convenient that one arises now.”

Newt bit his lip, turning over the idea in his mind, glancing back at the clustered aurors nearly hidden entirely from the blur of the strong disillusionment charm. “If not all of those people are your aurors then whose are they?” 

Graves brief smile for once wasn’t pleasant, a sharp, bitter twist of lips and teeth. “That man that Tina’s been trying to keep from storming onto the scene. Senator Weiss. His pet project of the last few years has been the creation of a private task force, composed of newly recruited aurors that answer only to him. Weiss  _ also, _ ” Graves practically growled, the sound rumbling low in his chest, “just so happens to be my greatest opposition on the Congress floor. Tell me, Newt,” Graves murmured, turning to him, close enough that Newt could distinguish his pupils from his irises, dark as his eyes had become, “are you as tired of coincidences as I am?”

Newt swallowed dryly, glancing at the ground. It was horrifying to think about, that those poor people may have died for some corrupt agenda. But there was still something he didn’t understand at all. “Why are you telling  _ me _ this?” Newt asked slowly. 

Graves stared at him, his gaze slowly roaming over Newt’s face, as if he was cataloging Newt’s features. Newt thought he saw the stirrings of a genuine smile at the question, the twitch of a corner, a brief softening of Graves’ expression, and fought to keep his heart from racing. The man schooled his face so quickly it was impossible to tell. “Because,” he murmured in answer, tilting his head slightly, “you are an outsider who has unknowingly stumbled upon a veritable den of wolves without knowing it. And,” he added softly after a moment, “something tells me, Newt Scamander, that I can trust you.”

* * *

They found nothing. No tracks, no leads, nothing. The scene had been wiped clean from the rain the night before. It had been deemed an attack from a rabid dog for the peace of mind of muggle authorities. Aurors were to patrol the perimeter of Central Park, but without any indication of what—or who, Newt now considered—did this, it was impossible to move forward any other way. Graves had mentioned something about procedurally rounding up possible suspects, known werewolves with criminal leanings, but also the fact that it wouldn’t help. Tests for Wolfsbane would be inconclusive given how long it’d been, and none would have alibis to narrow anything down.

“Why is that?” Newt had asked, genuinely curious.

Graves had sent him a wry look tinged with that noticeable, palpable fatigue, and though his reply was deadpan, matter of fact, it still made something unhappy settle in Newt’s chest. “Even with Wolfsbane Potion, the change isn’t something most are...eager to share. It’s more bearable alone.”

A desire to remedy that look of exhaustion was mainly the reason why Newt was currently standing outside of Graves’ office door with one of Jacob’s best pastries in one hand and a thermos of Jacob’s supposedly amazing coffee—Newt didn’t doubt it, it was just that he was much more of a tea person, thanks—in the other. Graves’ coat, Newt’s prime excuse should Graves not take the coffee or pastry well, was hanging on his arm. It really was high time he gave it back, after all. He wouldn’t want Graves to think he’d accosted it. 

Before he could overthink it, Newt knocked on the door, which did take quite a bit of maneuvering with all the things in his hands. The door swung open under his hand, revealing Graves at his desk, concentrated on whatever he was writing. Files flew around the office, some adding to the frighteningly large stack on Graves’ desk and others flying off the desk and zooming over Newt’s head and out the door. “Yes?” Graves muttered without glancing up, the speed of pen across paper not letting up. 

Newt sudden realized how bad of an idea this was. Graves was obviously extremely busy, the last thing he needed was Newt bothering him. “I, um...” Oh, bloody hell, this was a bad idea.

Graves looked up, blinking when he saw Newt hovering in the doorway. “Newt,” he murmured, a final file plopping itself onto his desk before there was a sudden stillness in the office. Newt had forgotten how hard it was to look away when those eyes were on him. 

Graves looked expectant, so Newt blurted, “I brought you this,” holding out the pastry, “and, um, coffee, because, um, well, Tina told me? That the coffee machine broke, so I thought you might--I’m sorry for interrupting you, by the way, but I thought you might, um, want some, perhaps, and, well, I don’t really drink coffee, so I got my friend, Jacob, to make some—I don’t really know anything...about coffee, so I hope it’s um...good...”

He trailed off when Graves got up from his desk and walked towards him. Graves was dressed down in only a shirt and vest, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and top few buttons undone, and it was impossible not to stare. Then, Graves  _ smiled,  _ a full blown smile with teeth and eyes crinkled at the corners, and Newt was definitely staring for longer than was polite. “Newt, you’re a Godsend,” he said, a curl of his magic taking the pastry from Newt’s hand and sending it to his desk, and his hand reaching out to take the thermos. 

Graves was very close and still smiling, and Newt was getting continuously distracted by his lovely mouth, and there was something else he’d been meaning to do—

_ Ah.  _ “I have your coat, too,” Newt said, holding it out for him, using it not unlike a flimsy shield. Graves looked down at it. Newt saw him visibly inhale and glance back at him, eyes darker than they had been.

“Did you wear it?” Graves asked curiously, tilting his head, and Newt felt his face flush.

“No,” he assured quickly, “no, not...not after that...first night...” He was sure his face was absolutely, mortifyingly red at this point.  

“Huh,” Graves murmured, gently taking it from Newt’s hands, their fingers brushing briefly. “It still smells like you.”

“O-oh?” Newt swallowed, feeling slightly lightheaded. “Um...s-sorry?”

Graves’ smile widened and Newt’s eyes dropped to it. “Don’t be,” Graves said, leaning closer, voice a low rumble. 

Newt felt his heart pounding and felt himself swaying closer, but there was a sudden, sharp wolf-whistle from Graves’ desk that made him jump. Graves sighed and rolled his eyes, sending Newt a small, rueful smile. “Paperwork beckons. I’m afraid, I really have to be getting back to it, though I assure you it’s the last thing I’d rather be doing. Lovely as always,” Graves murmured, gently taking Newt’s hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it, “to see you, Newt.” 

Newt felt his face heat up with a blush. “R-right,” he said unthinkingly, before flushing even more, “I mean, it’s nice to—I mean...I enjoy...seeing you as well...” he finished weakly, wishing briefly that the floor would just swallow him up where he stood. 

Though the way Graves looked at him, noticeably soft and fond, was enough to raise his spirits. Slightly.

Because now, he was thoroughly, utterly infatuated. 

Bugger. 


	3. Chapter 3

Newt stayed longer than he planned to. He’d been caught up in little cases that involved puffskins and knarls, but nothing more extreme than that. He’d been happy to take them off MACUSA’s hands. Newt had taken—when he was there—to bringing Graves Jacob’s coffee, in hopes of perhaps seeing that blinding smile directed at him.

So far it had worked every single time. Graves looked increasingly pleased every time Newt stopped by, placing a hand on Newt’s shoulder or the small of his back and asking how his day went. He could usually get through the conversation without stumbling, which he considered rather impressive given the way Graves looked at him, those dark eyes noticeably fond. It was, perhaps, the reason Newt hadn't returned to work with the beast division in the Ministry as he'd planned, and the reason he was considering consulting for MACUSA full time.

That, and also the fact that there was still the looming date of the next full moon hanging over their heads, approaching in earnest. The fact that when Newt entered Graves’ office he caught the tail end of those crime scene photos materializing away, the tail end of a pensive, worried frown that Newt could still see hiding behind that smile.

He ached to smooth it all away, but there hadn't been a sign of creature in the evidence, or any trace Newt could see when he'd gotten there.

So he settled for bringing Graves coffee, and Newt liked to think that though Graves often looked tired and frustrated the smiles he gave Newt were genuine things. That, perhaps, something might come of them.

It certainly wasn't just Newt who seemed to think Graves had a soft spot for him—in fact, several aurors, Tina and Abernathy most frequently, had taken to yanking him into the room with them as somewhat of a human shield against Graves’ ire. It wouldn't work to deter it completely, but Graves would noticeably come to a stop at seeing Newt, blink as if he’d forgotten why he’d stormed in, then promptly say hello and round Newt to berate whichever auror he'd intended to berate. Judging by the given auror’s self-satisfied air afterwards, Newt could guess it was likely less of a reprimand than they would have received otherwise. Newt thought he should have minded more, but he was secretly pleased every time his presence seemed to stop the Director short for a moment.

It was those small moments that helped to lessen the unease as the next full moon came closer.

The night before it Newt remained at MACUSA for longer than usual, attempting to coax a group of unruly jarveys brought in from an abandoned warehouse used for smuggling. The process of collecting them would have been easy, if a clumsy junior auror hadn't accidentally upturned the crate they'd been kept in, sending them speeding for hidden alcoves around the room. Of course, instead of opting to enter the case, they merely preferred to swear relentlessly at him. Newt had managed to get all but one in, but it had taken the better part of four hours. He raced around the enclosed evidence locker—and thank Merlin it was magically sealed, because these jarveys had been absolutely _relentless_ —trying to wrangle the last one. “Fat fucker!” the jarvey cackled.

Newt dove, trying to catch the jarvey between his hands before it raced under a shelf, banging his left wrist in the process. He hissed, rubbing at it, glaring at the jarvey now perched on the shelf above. “You little bugger,” Newt grumbled irritatedly, blowing a strand of hair from his eyes.

The jarvey actually stuck it’s tongue out at him. Newt made another lunge for it, but it skittered off immediately, cackling like a hyena as it went. Newt groaned, turning onto his back and glaring up at the fluorescent lights of the ceiling. He wanted to sleep. So desperately. This was absolutely, he considered, heaving a sigh, the _worst_ way to spend an evening.

But alas, he'd convinced the president to let him keep the jarveys, so he had to get them into the case.

And the thing about jarveys, Newt recalled, hearing the patter of paws come closer, was that they _loved_ any opportunity to gloat. He carefully noted where the sound was coming from and closed his eyes. The pattering came slightly closer. It stopped for a moment, then came once more, about a foot from Newt’s right. Then, “ _ha,_ fucking loser—”

Newt lunged, catching the squirming jarvey in his hands, wincing at some of the curses it came up with. “You're a creative one,” Newt told it, unsure if he should be impressed or not.

He firmly placed the creature in his case, the click of the lock ringing in the silence. Newt sighed. _Finally._

With a wave of his wand he opened the door, feeling an abrupt sense of relief, only to freeze at the sound of tiny, darting, scrabbling footfalls.

Out the door.

“Shit _,_ ” Newt blurted, on instinct yanking the door shut again with a pull of magic. Piquery’s one condition had been that he wasn't to let any of them out of the room, unless they were in his case.

Maybe, he thought hopefully, frantically, it hadn't left the room yet. He disregarded the bland hope immediately. He'd clearly heard something leave. But—

He'd collected all the jarveys. Hadn't he?

Newt dropped his case and opened it, sticking his head inside. “One, two, three, four... _five_ , there you are you little bugger. Five, that's...” Newt clambered out. That was all there was. Five.

That could only mean—

“ _Shit_ ,” Newt hissed, quickly clasping the locks and racing out of the room. He careened down the hallway just in time to see the niffler make a hairpin turn.

He was so focused on follower the niffler that he didn't notice the low, angry murmuring of voices in the hallway until he rounded the corner. Newt froze like a deer in the headlights. The murmuring that had only just begun to register stopped as both parties turned to look at Newt.

For once, Graves did not look happy to see him.

The other man was the man from the crime scene—Senator Weiss, Graves had said. Now that he was closer, Newt could see he was slighter younger than Graves, tan and square jawed with perfectly coiffed auburn hair and green eyes that had lit up with a sharp curiosity when he saw Newt. But there was a distinctly clinical edge to it that sent a chill down Newt’s spine, the look making him feel as if he were a particularly interesting specimen on a slab.

“What are you still doing here?” Graves asked him lowly, a tense note to his voice.

Newt snapped his jaw shut, eyes darting between them nervously. Oh, he really, truly hadn't meant to get in the middle of...whatever this was. “I, um,” he began, voice slightly higher than usual, “was just...looking for s-something, but it's obviously not here,” he said, beginning to backtrack, “so I think I'll just—”

“Nonsense,” Weiss said, a startlingly white smile appearing on his face that made him even more stunningly handsome, charming dimples appearing at the corners. A smile like that was a practiced tactic. Newt froze instinctually at the sight of it. That smile was like a weapon, like a nomaj gun being cocked, and it was so very convincing as long as one didn't notice how those green eyes remained calculating. That sharp glint would be impossible to see if one wasn't looking very, very closely. Newt understood, suddenly, how this man could be dangerous. “I haven't yet had a chance,” Weiss continued, brushing past a furious looking Graves to come closer, “to meet our resident beast whisperer.”

Newt clicked his jaw shut. “Actually—”

“Scamander,” Weiss said, looking Newt up and down, settling on his face when he added, quirking a brow, “isn't it?” The smile widened. “Theseus Scamander’s little brother.”

“I—” Newt’s voice cut out and his heart stopped when he focused on the blur of movement at the man’s feet. The niffler was jumping, swiping its paws in an attempt to grab hold of a gold chain trailing out of the man’s pocket, likely a pocket watch. “Yes,” he confirmed quickly, glancing back up in hopes that Weiss wouldn’t follow his gaze and see the niffler.

Newt’s eyes darted back to Graves, but of course he hadn’t gotten so lucky—Graves was staring at the niffler, one eyebrow raised and looking distinctly unimpressed, and very unamused when he glanced back at Newt.

“How is that brother of yours?” Weiss asked, and though Newt was now barely focused on him, there was something about the way Weiss’ smile stayed in place that seemed distinctly unnatural, the tilt of it almost shark-like. “Is he still the Head of the Auror Office?”

Newt frowned, his gaze settling firmly on Weiss. “I—yes, he is. Do you—” he began, intending to ask if the man knew Theseus, but another flash of movement had Newt’s voice leaving him in a panic.

The niffler succeeded in grabbing the chain, pulling at it, and it would have made a horrendous sound as it hit the ground, but suddenly the niffler and the watch froze in midair and vanished from sight, and Graves was there, drawing Weiss’ attention away. “Enough,” Graves said, voice low and almost dangerous like a snarl, though Weiss still maintained a small smile. “Will you do as I asked or not?”

Weiss tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. Though the smile, now with a surface level apologetic tinge, crept back when he murmured, “I don’t think so, Graves.”

Newt had never seen Graves look so cold. “Half of them aren’t even a week out of the junior auror position. They aren’t ready for—”

“Well, then it seems to me,” Weiss said evenly, eyes sharp, “that the fault lies in their training.” Graves eyes narrowed. “Perhaps,” Weiss continued, turning away, “you should attempt to be better at your job.”

Newt suddenly felt a righteous fury on Graves behalf. Glancing back at him, Newt could see Graves was stiff as a board, staring at Weiss’ retreating figure with a hard look in his eyes. Graves’ anger, unlike Newt’s, was cold, quiet, like the heavy feeling in the air before it rains. “Morgan,” Graves said, voice level, calm. Weiss turned, tilted his head, his polite smile almost amused. “I gave you an out,” Graves said slowly. “Remember that.”

Weiss merely looked at him for a moment, expression unchanging, before his eyes found Newt. That smile, the one he’d sent Newt earlier, returned. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Scamander,” he said, and though Newt said nothing in reply it didn’t seem to matter, the man already turning and rounding the end of the hallway as if he couldn’t have cared less about an answer.

Newt looked to Graves nervously. The man’s expression was dark, his gaze distant. Newt thought it would probably be best if he just collected the niffler and went on his way. Only... “Um...Mr. Graves...do you think you could, um...” Newt gestured awkwardly at the spot where the niffler had disappeared when Graves glanced at him.

Thankfully, the dark expression vanished, but it was unfortunately replaced by a look of distinct irritation when Graves waved his hand and the niffler reappeared, squirming where it hung in the air. “Newt, do I want to know why there’s a niffler roaming around?” Graves asked dryly.

“No,” Newt answered sheepishly. “Probably not.” He carefully gathered the niffler into his arms, the spell releasing him. “I am really sorry about this.” Graves waved a hand dismissively and pinched the bridge of his nose. He still looked tired, and it made Newt’s heart ache. “I can return the watch,” Newt continued, apologetic.

Graves gave him a steady look. “What watch?”

Newt frowned. “The go—oh.” He studied Graves’ expression. “Really?”

There was the slightest twitch at the corner of Graves mouth as if he wanted to smile. “I don’t remember any watch. Nor,” he added, slowly, “do I remember a niffler.”

Newt beamed at him. “Really?”

Graves huffed something that sounded like a short laugh, shaking his head slightly. “Go home, Newt,” he murmured, voice fond.

“What about you?”

Graves sighed. “Still work to do, unfortunately.”

Newt frowned, but it wasn’t as if he could convince Graves not to do his job. “Would you like coffee? I could bring you coffee,” Newt tried.

It was impossible to miss the way Graves perked up a bit at the offer, though Graves started to say, “I’m sure your friend, Jacob, isn’t up—”

“Wait right here,” Newt told him firmly, placing his case on the ground and opening it. Graves raised his eyebrows but complied, a distinctly amused turn to his mouth. Newt quickly dropped the niffler off, and headed to his storeroom. He’d kept some of Jacob’s coffee in magical stasis. Just in case.

He emerged from his case with a mug of it in hand. Graves eyed his case curiously, but didn’t pry. It struck Newt that Graves hadn’t seen the inside of his case, but more so the fact that Newt abruptly _wanted_ to show him. It was rare that he was so quickly willing to share the nature of the case with someone else. Huh. “Here,” Newt said, handing the mug to Graves.

Graves took it, their fingers brushing lightly. “I’m starting to think you’re using this to bribe me,” Graves murmured wryly. Newt was about to reply, an adamant ‘of course not,’ because he didn’t _think_ that was what he was doing, but Graves took a sip from the coffee and let out a moan that abruptly made Newt forget how to speak. “You know what,” Graves said, grinning at him with his blinding smile and taking another sip, “I don’t even care.”

Newt really, _really_ needed to thank Jacob.

* * *

Of course, the morning after the full moon brought chaos. Newt was jolted awake in the early hours of dawn by a pale, shaken Tina. He read everything on her face. “There’s another one?” he breathed.

Tina nodded, eyes wide. “But this time she was found _alive._ ”

Newt felt a shaky kind of relief, words tumbling out of his mouth. “Is she alright, will she be?”

“I don’t know,” Tina answered, “I hope so, they’ve taken her to a hospital. Can you...” Tina swallowed, looking slightly green, “we’re still working on cataloging what’s been left behind, can you help?”

It must have been more gruesome than the last. Tina wasn’t easily squeamish. But Newt had to do something, he couldn’t just wait there for news. If he could help, he would do so gladly. “Of course.”

They apparated to the scene. It was near the opposite side of the park this time, clustered among a dense grove of trees. The blood was still fresh, dripping from the trees, highlighted by the sun rising above the horizon. Some other aurors were already there, but others were still appearing on the scene. Newt remembered the partial conversation he’d heard between Graves and Weiss, and wondered how many of them were Graves’.

He approached the area where he believed the woman to be attacked, a indentation evident in the grass where she must have fallen. The blow she received must have been more violent than the others, judging by the surrounding carnage. Newt swallowed uneasily, trying not to focus on the cloying smell in the air. “How soon after was she found?” he asked, glancing at Tina.

“An hour,” Tina answered thickly, “at least.”

“Merlin,” Newt muttered. It was a miracle she’d survived that long. Judging by the remnants left behind. “Was she another nomaj?” he asked. Things could potentially get much worse if she was. The other two victims, brother and sister they’d learned, had had no remaining family in the city. Their deaths, much as it was grim to consider, were easy enough to explain away. The death of a muggle with connections would be much harder to hide.

“We think she was a squib,” Tina answered, hand raking through her hair. “She didn’t seem surprised when Johnson found her, asked him to heal her.” Tina sighed roughly. “But no amount of amateur healing magic could fix this.”

Newt nodded, taking a steadying breath and returning his attention to the bloodied grass. There must have been something, tracks, hair, something that pointed to what did this. Newt carefully made his way around, eyes searching for anything of the kind. His gaze caught on a faint imprint in the ground. He crouched down beside it. Ironically, he was irritated it hadn’t rained. It would have been helpful the night before. Wet earth would have made the imprint more distinct. And, yet, if he squinted, it looked like...

The cracking of multiple arrivals of apparition snapped Newt from his thoughts, had him glancing up to find a grim, grey faced Graves, Abernathy and O’Brien close behind. Tina made an aborted move towards them, wide eyed. “Is she...?”

Graves brushed past her, expression dark. “She’s dead,” he muttered, the sound carrying just enough for Newt to hear.

Newt’s heart sank. Another death. Graves stared at the imprint on the grass for a moment, eyes hard. “Everyone _shut the fuck up_ ,” Graves snarled, and the sound of low conversing ceased immediately, all aurors’ eyes turning to Graves. “You four,” he commanded, pointing, “take the south end, you the north, east, west. You start at the edge, work your way to the middle. I want _every_ inch of this park searched, now. Abernathy, get on shutting this park down, I don’t care what you say to convince the nomajes, call it a bomb, a chemical leak, just get it done. The rest of you look for anything, _anything,_ that you even think constitutes as substantial evidence and bring it to me. And I want,” Graves grit out, “every auror who was patrolling from 4 to 6 a.m. in front of me. _Now._ ”

The aurors scrambled to comply, six of them coming to stand before Graves. Some of them, the younger ones Newt noted, looked so terrified he was worried they might pass out. “Can someone explain to me,” Graves asked slowly, “why this woman was able to sneak past the perimeter you were supposed to maintain?”

One of the aurors, a senior auror Newt remembered was named Jacobson, answered immediately, “we think she was already in the park, sir. Homeless. She somehow slipped through our combing last time. We found some of what we think to be her belongings under a bridge nearby.”

“Well, that means you were either incompetent within the last 24 hours or within the last month, I’m glad we’ve narrowed it down,” Graves said dryly. “So to be clear, not one of you saw anyone or anything come in or out of the park last night?” There was a chorus of ‘no, sirs’ in answer. Graves looked at each one of them for a moment. “If any of you so much as muck up a wand violation for the next month, I’ll have you suspended before you can so much as blink, do you understand me?” Another resounding chorus. Graves dismissed them, turning away and briefly pressing his palms to his eyes.

Newt focused back on the scene in front of him, trying to pretend he hadn’t been listening in on every word. It didn’t seem to matter, Graves came up to him anyway, but all he said was a tired, “anything?”

“I think this might be a print,” Newt told him, tracing the outline with a fingertip. “It’s not really clear...what it came from, but if there’s one, I’m sure I can find more.”

“Good. Do you think with a clearer one you could identify the creature responsible?” Graves asked.

“It would certainly help to narrow it down,” Newt said honestly.

“Ok, that’s—” Graves cut off abruptly and Newt glanced up at him, seeing his gaze, narrowed, on something beyond. Newt followed it and could just catch the rush of cars through the street beyond the grove of trees. “O’Brien!” Graves barked suddenly, eyes never moving from that spot he seemed to be fixated on. O’Brien quickly came up behind Graves. “There’s a man, over there across the street, leaning against the building directly across. No, you won’t see him from here, he’s too far. Light blonde, brown eyes, about 5’10’’. Considering he hasn’t moved from that spot since we’ve been talking, I’m sure you’ll have the time to get a closer look. I want you to tail him, report back if you see anything suspicious, anything that might tie him to this case.”

“Yes, sir,” O’Brien answered. “You think he’s involved?”

Graves nodded and glanced at Newt. “You remember the people by the reservoir last month?”

Newt thought for a moment and nodded. “The couple and the man to our left.”

“Well, that,” Graves murmured, pointing to a spot farther than Newt or O’Brien could see, “is the man who was on the bench next to us.”

Though Newt couldn’t see him, he distinctly pictured the man watching them, and a shiver went down his spine. He couldn’t have even recalled the man’s face, though he remembered someone had been there. Perfectly inconspicuous. Perfectly invisible. “A lot of coincidences,” Newt murmured.

Graves huffed a distinctly humorless laugh. “A lot of coincidences,” he echoed darkly.

* * *

Now that they knew the killings were consistent, the same area, the same time, they planned to catch the creature in the act the next full moon. Newt had gotten casts of several half prints, and some found hair fibers, but he couldn’t, for the life of him, identify them. He poured over his books daily, but nothing he’d encountered before seemed to clearly match them. He could, at least, eliminate creatures that weren’t clawed with at least five hind digits. That took care of about half the possible candidates, but did not rule out a werewolf. Except Newt was now certain that this _wasn’t_ a werewolf, though he frustratingly couldn’t prove it. What kind of werewolf, even a rogue one, would attack in the exact same area, of less than two square miles? It didn’t make sense, and the fact that the attacks consistently occurred on the full moon only strengthened Graves’ theory in Newt’s mind. Someone was _orchestrating_ this.

But Newt couldn’t prove it, couldn’t even find a match to the evidence. The fruitless search was as frustrating as it was tiring. With Newt pilfering through the his notes most days and Graves handling the case, Newt didn’t see him much. In a way, Newt was almost glad of it, because he hated being able to offer up nothing.

The next full moon came quickly and Newt, along with countless aurors, searched the park. There was nothing, no sign of any creature for the majority of the night. Newt felt increasingly frustrated—it figured the pattern would hold until they were prepared to deal with it. Newt hadn’t slept at all, had been there since nightfall in hopes of finally breaking the case, but so far no aurors had found a trace of a creature.

Snow had gently begun to fall, the first snow of the season. It was bitterly cold and Newt wrapped his coat tighter around him. Dawn was just about to break.

At least there had been no attack, no one injured. Even if nothing happened, it would be a change for the better. Newt sighed, watching his breath dissipate in the air.

His gaze caught on something on the ground a few feet away and he froze for a moment before coming closer. It was barely visible, being covered by the freshly falling snow, but it was distinct. A print, clawed, large. A quick glance showed more, leading farther into the park. Breathless, Newt followed them, coming to an abrupt stop when they suddenly ended at the base of a skinny tree, thin enough that Newt could wrap his hand around the trunk. He came closer, wincing at a sudden crunch when he stepped on something. A glance down revealed the carcass of a raccoon, gutted.

Fresh.

Newt whipped his head up, eyes focusing on slow movement. Wickedly sharp claws appeared around the edge of the thin trunk, though Newt could see nothing at all beyond it, so it took a moment for Newt to process what he was seeing.

Oh. _Oh._

He scrambled back, heart pounding, but a blur of movement raced at him, and Newt caught sight of grey fur and black eyes before the creature swiped at his chest, catching Newt just below the collarbone. He fell back, gasping, and caught a clear picture of the creature above him, rearing back to strike again, before dawn suddenly broke, and the creature vanished in a puff of smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol sorry this is a cliffhanger, I didn't quite have time to write all I was planning to but rest assured more will come soon, though I can't pinpoint exactly when bc finals are a bitch  
> I am as eager to answer the question of what this creature is as you guys are to find out, I promise ;)  
> Also is Newt aware that he's sort of classically conditioning Graves with coffee? Yes, yes he is


	4. Chapter 4

Newt gaped at the sudden empty space in front of him, heart pounding, and with a slightly hysterical laugh dropped his head back down. He lay there in the snow, mind reeling. Had he really seen...? Wow. _Wow!_ He’d never seen one in the flesh before—

“ _Ah,_ ow.” Newt winced, pressing at his chest. The slash was bleeding sluggishly, but luckily wasn't too deep. He’d had much worse before. Shame he didn't have any essence of dittany on hand. This was quite the inconvenience. He tentatively tried to sit up, only to be hit with a wave of dizziness and pain.

He frowned and sank back down. Perhaps, he conceded, it was a tad more serious than he’d thought. Though, in all honesty, he was lucky his entrails were still where they were supposed to be. He grinned, his huff of breath hanging for a moment in the cold, clear air. “ _Wow._ ”

It had been magnificent, truly gorgeous. They were rarely seen, reclusive to the utmost, and—

Newt frowned pensively. They usually didn’t leave their kills out in the open, that was how they remained in the shadows. Then why...?

Newt registered the distant sound of footsteps in the snow. He helpfully raised a hand into the air and waved it. “ _Christ_ ,” he heard, the footsteps coming closer. A worried face appeared, looking down at him. Jacobson, Newt recalled. “Don't move, Scamander,” he said, and angling his wand to his throat, “South, about half a mile in. Scamander’s been attacked.”

* * *

“Oh, he was _beautiful,_ Tina, he—well, I think it was a he, but I’m not really su— _ow—_ ”

“Sit still, dammit, Newt,” Tina admonished, glaring at him. She was busying herself with wrapping bandages around his chest until the healer arrived, though Newt had repeatedly assured her that it was fine. “I don’t know _what_ ,” Tina said, punctuating the word while wrapping tighter, the motion jolting Newt closer to her on the park bench, “possibly convinced you following those tracks without alerting us was a good—no, you know what, I do know, Newt, you just have a death wish—”

“I don’t have a death wish,” Newt muttered petulantly, though Tina continued over him, “—and at best, you have no concept of your own personal safety.” She finished winding the bandage into place and whacked him hard on the arm.    

“ _Ah!_ Injured party here,” he grumbled, rubbing at it, hissing when the action pulled at the wound. Being hindered was so irritating. He did hope the healer got there soon. To top it all off Tina looked even more angry with him at the sound, which, really, didn’t even make sense. She was almost worse than Theseus.

Newt didn't take note when he heard a sudden, sharp crack of apparition in the distance, he'd been hearing similar sounds all morning, but he stiffened when the voice that came a few moments later was familiar. “I’m sorry, he fucking _what?”_ Graves’ low, angry, voice growled.

Newt glanced up, swallowing nervously when Graves swung his gaze away from Jacobson to glare, dark-eyed, at Newt. It was really quite impressive he’d gotten there so fast, Newt thought distantly as the man came over. There were still the faint traces of what he’d been through the night before, tired lines around his eyes, skin a shade too pale, but he carried himself like a man unburdened, standing tall and gaze keenly sharp.

And intent on Newt, a very blatant scowl marring his features.

Newt prepared himself for the reprimand of a lifetime, but although he had his jaw clenched tight, Graves merely stopped in front of him and crouched down, hand coming up to trace the edge of the bandages. Newt felt his heart beat slightly faster at the light, gentle touch of the man’s fingertips. Graves frowned, the slightest crease between his brows, and lightly pressed his palm against Newt’s chest. Newt wondered if he could feel how fast his heart was beating and flushed at the thought. A sudden warmth spread under Graves’ fingertips and the pulsing ache devolved into a gentle hum, disappearing altogether after a few moments. He was sure, if he removed the bandages, the wound would be completely healed.

Newt blinked, trying to will away the pink that tinged his cheeks. “Thank you,” he murmured.

Graves had been frowning at his chest and at Newt’s words he glanced up at him for a moment, before his eyes hardened and he stood up, whirling around. “Why exactly,” Graves asked Jacobson, the low beginnings of a snarl in his voice, “was a civilian allowed to wander off alone with a dangerous creature on the loose? Whose fucking bright idea was it to leave him unaccompanied?”

Jacobson looked a little pale. The man shifted slightly. “Well, sir, I wasn’t aware—”

Newt sighed. Really, did no one think he could do anything himself? “I followed those tracks of my own free will. I was alone because I chose to be. Because, Mr. Graves, I can handle myself.”

Graves turned back to look at him and Newt very nearly lost his resolve under the scrutinizing, unreadable gaze, but rallied and added, “I don't need a chaperone. I assure you, I have traversed countless more dangerous locations than Central Park.”

Graves’ eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, his expression void of anything telling. There was the briefest flicker of frustration before it was neatly and quickly tucked away. Graves looked away for a moment and took a visible breath.

“You saw it?” he asked after a moment, his gaze settling back to Newt, and suddenly he was very much the Director again, unreadable and pragmatic and calculating.

Despite the change in demeanor that left Newt slightly flustered, he re-experienced some of that incredulity and wonder he’d felt in the moment. A wide grin spread over his face. “I did. And I know what it is. It isn't a werewolf, Mr. Graves, what we are dealing with is a hidebehind.” He paused, expecting Graves to be pleased to hear the news, but that carefully blank expression didn't change, or even flicker. Though there was an expression of recognition at the creature's name, Graves merely continued to look at him, eyes hard. Newt’s smile dimmed slightly, but he continued, glancing between Tina, Graves, and Jacobson, “they're incredibly rare, near extinct, and native to Massachusetts, actually, which is why they never even struck me as a possibility. They can manipulate the shape of their bodies to an almost immeasurable degree and are capable of invisibility and extreme speed, which is why, I’m sure, we've had such difficulty in finding ours.”

“So, hidebehinds,” Graves said, tilting his head and asking pointedly, “do they naturally attack on full moons?”

Newt opened his mouth, closed it, and frowned. They _didn't_ , and that wasn't the only thing that was odd. The hidebehind hadn't merely become invisible after it attacked—it was almost as if it had completely vanished from existence, there one moment, gone the next. “No,” Newt answered distantly. “No they don't. In fact, there's something very _unnatural_ about this. Especially given that it's never attacked on any other day. I think...” Newt paused, biting his lip. “I think someone is conjuring or summoning it somehow, calling it away as soon as the night is through.” If that were true, it would further strengthen Graves’ theory, and Newt shivered to think of someone orchestrating this death and carnage, all for their own ulterior motives.

Graves watched him with those dark eyes, revealing nothing. Not even, Newt noted distinctly, a hint of surprise. “Are hidebehinds even known for attacking humans?” he asked levelly.

“Oh, on that note things check out—they _absolutely_ are,” Newt blurted immediately, his grin returning. Hidebehinds were so wonderfully _fascinating._ “They utterly despise humans and are particularly adept at disemboweling,” he continued thoughtlessly, and he would have gone on had it not been for his abrupt notice of the way Graves looked, briefly, murderous. “Which of course,” Newt added quickly, swallowing nervously, “is...bad.”

Graves, now, looked very angry, and Newt couldn't quite meet his eyes. “Jacobson, Tina, secure the scene,” he commanded, his gaze never leaving Newt.

Newt glanced at Tina wide-eyed, but Tina only sent him a sympathetic look and left with Jacobson. Graves extended a hand to Newt. “Come with me,” Graves grit out, voice low like a live wire. “ _Now._ ”

The moment Newt took Graves’ hand, their surroundings disappeared, and he found himself in the pristine, imposing setting of Graves’ office. Graves dropped his hand immediately, so quickly it almost stung, and Newt tried not to fixate on the loss of the warm palm so briefly clasped in his own.

He tried not to fidget when Graves didn't immediately say anything, the Director merely leaning back against his desk and regarding him with dark eyes. Finally, he said, “I never took you as stupid, Scamander.”

Newt bristled at the insult as well as the sudden use of his surname, quickly tamping down the sudden, distracting mix of humiliation and hurt. “I—”

“You aren't even a licensed consultant yet, Scamander, have you forgotten?” Graves asked darkly.

Newt clicked his jaw shut. “I have not,” he replied tersely.

Graves dark eyes bore into him, before he turned away, placing his hands on his desk. After a moment, the man muttered, “I have half a mind to bar you from that license.”

Newt flushed angrily. “You can't!”

“Oh, I assure you, Scamander, I very well can,” Graves snapped, turning back to face Newt. Newt opened his mouth to respond, but Graves continued angrily, “answer me this. Did you know what that creature was going to be?”

“No,” Newt answered rigidly after a moment.

“Could that creature have been something you had never encountered before, something you wouldn’t have known how to deal with?” Graves pressed, taking a step closer, and Newt, mirroring him, took a step back.

Newt swallowed. He was beginning to see, now, the root of Graves anger, and it was slowly divesting him of his own. “Yes.”

“And still,” Graves said, taking another step, looking almost predatory, “you didn't even think to call or wait for the _countless_ aurors that were there?”

“Well,” Newt began weakly, “if I had then we would have missed it entirely. It disappeared directly at dawn—”

Graves hand shot out, grabbed at the fabric of Newt’s coat, and with a slight shove pinned him against the wall, eyes dark. “Do you really think I would be willing to trade that fucking information for your life?” Graves asked, his perfect features coldly furious, and Newt really, _really,_ shouldn't have found that increasingly attractive. “An inch or two deeper and that blow would have killed you, do you understand that?”

Newt bit his lip, heart pounding, and tried to focus on Graves words rather than his face, inches from Newt’s own, or the smell of his aftershave, or the corded muscles in his arm, flexed to keep Newt in place. It was difficult. Newt shook himself, briefly meeting Graves’ eyes. “I didn't think,” he said, breathless. “I’m sorry.”

Graves took a breath, and closed his eyes. “I don't care how much expertise you have,” he said, voice low in his throat, “from now on you do not go into any potentially dangerous situation without an auror present with you.”

Newt swallowed dryly, trying not to stare at Graves’ mouth. The man was trying to _reprimand him,_ for Merlin’s sake. The hand fisted in his coat pressed tighter, a heavy weight against his chest, and Newt couldn't help but imagine Graves pinning him down under other circumstances. His dick twitched at the thought, and Graves, who had opened his mouth to say something else immediately snapped it shut, his chest heaving in a sudden inhale and pupils dilating.

Ah, fuck.

This had just turned from slightly humiliating to absolutely mortifying. Graves stared at him, his expression agonizingly unreadable, lips parted slightly. Newt felt increasingly more embarrassed with every passing moment that Graves was silent, his face going red. Just as Newt was about to cave and beg something along the things of ‘for the love of Merlin can we forget this ever happened?’ Newt’s arms were pulled above his head, pinned by invisible, magical tendrils to the wall. “Wha—?”

Newt was cut off by Graves surging forward, his palms warm on Newt’s cheeks, his mouth pressing against Newt’s insistently. Newt’s mind went blank with shock, because that was _Graves’_ mouth on his, before he was kissing back with a feverish, desperate want. Graves kissed like a man possessed, open mouthed and fierce with tongue and the gentle scrape of teeth, and when Newt pressed into it Graves made a sound, a low groan that rumbled in his chest and sent a spike of arousal down Newt’s spine.

Graves came closer, his body flush with Newt’s, his thigh slotting between Newt’s legs and pressing, sending sparks of pleasure in the pit of Newt’s stomach, making him moan into Graves’ mouth. Graves pulled back slightly, chest heaving and eyes the color of obsidian, and Newt let out an unhappy noise at the loss. “ _Fuck,_ ” Graves breathed, leaning in and mouthing the words along Newt’s jaw, “I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you, standing there in that office.” Newt shivered at the words, and Graves ghosted his lips over Newt’s pulse point. Newt let out a keening noise when he felt a light scrape of teeth. “I thought,” Graves continued, voice rumbling, hands dropping to Newt’s waist, “of bringing you here, kissing that mouth,” he murmured, punctuating his words with another, gentler press of his lips against Newt’s mouth, then, low and rumbling, as he pulled Newt’s hips against his, “of fucking you on my desk.”

Newt gasped at the heady thought and at the pressure of Graves’ leg against his cock, straining the fabric of his trousers, throwing his head back and taking a ragged breath. When he spoke, his voice came out thin, breathy. “Mr. Graves—”

“Percival,” Graves murmured, “call me Percival.”

Newt swallowed, closing his eyes at the feeling of Graves’ soft lips against his jaw, his nose brushing against Newt’s neck. “Percival,” he whispered, and Newt felt his shaky exhale, the way his grip tightened slightly around Newt’s waist and his body pressed closer, heady and hot and _possessive_ in a way that had Newt breathless, desperate for more.

Graves— _Percival_ —captured Newt’s mouth in a fierce kiss, hands raking down Newt’s chest. “I want to taste you,” he murmured, pressing fevered kisses to Newt’s skin. “Can I?”

Newt nodded frantically, not even entirely sure what he was agreeing to, but wanting anything, everything. “Yes, yes,  _please,_ ” he gasped, pressing his hips farther forward and delighting in the low, stuttered, breathless sound Percival made. Newt tugged against the magic binding his wrists, but it wouldn’t budge, and a thrill ran through him when he considered Percival could effectively do with Newt what he liked.

Another pull of magic had Newt’s pants yanked down around his ankles, and before Newt could process that, he was suddenly and unequivocally focused on the sight of Percival Graves sinking to his knees in front of him, his eyes dark with desire. Newt’s mouth went dry. Percival met his eyes, his mouth inches from Newt’s cock. The ghosting feeling of his breath made Newt’s heart hammer in his chest. Then, slowly, smoothly, Percival took his cock into his mouth and slid forward, far enough that his nose nearly brushed Newt’s skin and Newt could feel the muscles of his throat fluttering. The sudden, wet heat of Percival’s mouth sent sparks shooting off behind his eyes and he trembled, letting out a short cry, fighting the urge to buck his hips.

Percival’s broad hands pressed into his ass and he pulled back, tongue swirling around Newt’s head. Newt let out a breathless moan when Percival’s tongue ran over his slit, the man’s eyes fluttering shut. Percival hummed around his cock, pulling Newt farther into his mouth with his hands, making Newt shudder. Far too soon, he felt warmth building up in the pit of his stomach, the feeling of pleasure coiling, pressing, and Newt babbled, “ _wait,_ Percival, _please_ , I want—” He cut himself off, flushing.

But Percival paused and pulled off, eyes intent on Newt’s. “No,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and low and ragged, “what do you want?” Percival tilted his head, pressing an open mouthed kiss to Newt’s hipbone that left him trembling, murmuring gently, “anything. Anything you want.” His eyes gazed up at Newt, dark and steady, and the sight of him, on his knees, pressing kisses to Newt’s stomach, was dizzying.

“I...I want to come with you inside me,” Newt breathed, his breath stuttering when Percival’s eyes darkened and he let out a low groan, pressing his forehead against Newt’s hip.

The magic pinning Newt’s arms to the wall faltered and his hands fell, dropping immediately to rake through Percival’s hair. Percival pressed into the touch and made a low, rumbling, contented sound in his throat, and Newt remembered to make a note of it, because in the next instant Percival was rising, wrapping his arms around Newt’s waist and pressing into a forceful kiss, his tongue slipping into Newt’s mouth. Newt tangled his fingers in Percival’s hair, pressing and pulling closer, and Percival made a sound like a low growl, deepening the kiss.

Their surroundings blurred and Newt felt the familiar press of apparition, and suddenly they were standing at the foot of a bed. Percival’s bed. Newt grinned against Percival’s mouth, grinding his hips against Percival’s cock, straining in his pants. Newt kicked his own pants away, thumbs brushing Percival’s cheekbones, and murmured, panting, “darling, you’re wearing too many clothes.”

Percival huffed a short laugh, pulling Newt closer, with a wave of his hand divesting them of their remaining clothing. Newt felt breathlessly excited at the picture of Percival, naked and hard, in front of him, his hands running down the lean muscle of his chest. In one, smooth motion, Percival hoisted him up and Newt instinctively wrapped his legs around Percival’s waist. The press of Percival’s mouth against his became increasingly forceful, and, as he lay Newt on the bed his hand snuck around, his finger teasing the rim of his hole. Newt bucked his hips at the sensation, breath stuttering. “Now,” he gasped, pulling Percival’s head down for a searing kiss, “darling, Percival, I need you inside me _now._ ”

Percival let out that sound again, that low growl that came straight from his chest and sent shivers down Newt’s spine. Percival extended a hand, catching the bottle of lubricant that his magic had flying at them, though most of his attention was reserved for the hot, open mouthed kisses he was pressing along Newt’s heaving chest, leaving him trembling with want. One of Percival’s fingers pressed inside him and Newt threw his head back, keening and pressing down into it. Percival worked him open carefully, but quickly, his own breaths coming in harsh pants as he pressed his mouth to Newt’s.

When he had three fingers inside, curling just right to hit Newt’s prostate, Newt let out a loud moan. He dropped his hand to Percival’s length, stroking once, twice, reveling in the way Percival’s breath stuttered and he rested his forehead on Newt’s stomach. When he spoke, his voice was ragged, hoarse and strained, “ _fuck_ , Newt, are you—”

“Yes,” Newt answered breathlessly, “ _yes,_ I’m ready, now, Percival, _please_.”

Newt spread his legs, wrapping them around Percival’s torso to give him easier access, and Percival groaned, pressing a quick kiss to Newt’s mouth and angling himself in. Percival pressed in slowly and Newt drew quick, panting breaths, hands fisting in the sheets as he reveled in the feeling of being full with Percival’s cock. Finally, Percival was fully inside him, the muscles in his arms quivering. “Good?” he asked, voice strained.

Newt allowed himself one moment for his body to get used to the feeling, then, “ _yes,_ yes, now, _move_.”

Percival pulled out almost completely, before snapping his hips, hitting Newt’s prostate on the first go. Newt threw his head back, a low moan escaping his throat. He braced a hand on the headboard and pushed back, clenching around Percival’s thrusts, quick and almost brutal. “Ah, _ah,_ yes, yes, there, _Merlin,_ harder, I’m not going to break—”

Percival obliged, snapping his hips harder and faster, his panting breaths ghosted against Newt’s neck, his nose buried in Newt’s hair. “ _Fuck,”_ he groaned, voice wrecked, “fuck, so fucking gorgeous, darling, want to see you come for me.”

Newt made high, almost involuntary sounds in the back of his throat everytime one of Percival’s thrusts lined up perfectly, carding his fingers in Percival’s hair and mindlessly pressing kisses to the line of his jaw. Newt could feel that pleasure building low in his stomach, drawing him closer with every thrust. It was Percival’s voice, low and rough like the scrape of gravel, murmuring, “come for me, darling,” that sent him tumbling over the edge.

Newt screamed into it, bucking his hips, the feeling of intense pleasure so acute and powerful his vision whited out for a moment. A few thrusts later had Percival following suit, his muscles freezing and breath stuttering. They lay there for a moment, breathing heavily. Percival slowly pulled out, rolling to sprawl beside Newt. “Here,” he murmured, fingers ghosting over Newt’s naval, the come disappearing.

“Mm,” Newt hummed, feeling content and pliant and warm. “Thanks,” he said, pressing closer to Percival.

Percival huffed another laugh, the sound like music. Newt had never heard him laugh much before, but now it was all he wanted to hear. Percival pressed a kiss to the top of his head. Newt snuck an arm around his chest, resting his head on Percival’s shoulder, trailing his fingertips over the muscled planes of Percival’s stomach. “You know,” Newt murmured, a grin pulling at his mouth, “the last place I expected to end up in was Director Percival Graves’ bed.”

Percival hummed. “Well, I hope you’re content to be here,” Percival answered easily, voice warm and still slightly rough around the edges. “These sheets were fucking expensive.”

Newt snorted an inelegant laugh and glanced up at Percival with a grin, pausing and heart fluttering in his chest when he saw the soft, fond look Percival was giving him. Newt’s smile grew smaller, softer, and he pressed a light, lingering kiss to Percival’s lips. Percival leaned up into it, the feeling of his palms on Newt’s cheeks warm and grounding.

But Newt couldn’t help but notice a quick flash of frustration that passed Percival’s face when the man briefly glanced at the clock across the room. Before he could even ask after it, Percival was pressing another insistent, almost bruising kiss to Newt’s mouth. “As much as I would love,” Percival murmured apologetically, breath ghosting against Newt’s lips as he pressed his forehead to Newt’s, “to stay here, in bed with you all day, I really have to go.”

Newt swallowed, pulling back slightly, a sudden, sinking feeling in his stomach. “Oh.”

Percival furrowed his brow, no doubt reading everything on Newt’s face—he was always terrible at hiding his feelings. “But,” Percival told him pointedly, leaning in and pressing a kiss to his cheek, “I’ll be back soon, if you’d like to stay. You see, I was supposed to be in a meeting with Picquery fifteen minutes ago,” he said, a binding, roguish smile spreading across his face.

Newt laughed, his worries dispelled. “Well, go on then,” he grinned, the smile pulling wider when Percival dipped down to press another kiss to his lips.

Despite his words, when Percival sat up, pushing away the sheets, Newt threw his arms around his neck, resting his chin on Percival’s shoulder and pressing a light kiss to his neck. “Don’t be long, darling,” Newt sighed.

“I’ll come back the very instant I can escape her office,” Percival promised, gifting him with a smile that made his eyes crinkle charmingly at the corners.

Newt grinned, glancing away, tilting his head when his gaze caught on a strange notch in the bedpost at the foot of the bed. There were four, long slashes in the wood. Newt blinked, eyes suddenly taking in the room that had merely been a blur before.

There was nothing obviously amiss, but if Newt looked closely he could see gouges in the carpet, sections where it had been pulled up from the floor by something large and forceful tearing it out. Perhaps, as something—clawed, agitated—moved along the floor. In the corner, by the left of the door, there was a barely noticeable indentation in the carpet, as if something had settled there, restless, for a long time.

Newt’s hand came up and he brushed the notch in the wood thoughtfully. Percival, in the midst of buttoning up his shirt, noticed, and out of the corner of his eye Newt saw him stiffen. When Newt glanced at him there was a dark, distant look in his eyes and a tightness to the set of his jaw, though when Percival’s hand came over Newt’s, lowering it, the touch was gentle. Percival touched his hand to the notch and the mark disappeared, the bedpost making itself whole again. “Apologies,” Percival murmured, the smile he sent Newt now strained, thin.

Newt shook his head, trying to assure, because he hated that strained, wary look on Percival’s face. He wondered if other lovers had seen similar things and reacted badly. “There’s nothing—”

“I really do have to go,” Percival said, pulling on his coat. The next smile was a more genuine thing. “Feel free to raid the kitchen,” he said warmly, and with a crack he was gone.

Newt frowned at the empty space, and cast his eyes again to that spot on the bedpost, the wood now appearing pristine and untouched. Completely unassuming. Completely inconspicuous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the smut was ok lol I'm never sure if that shit's good XD  
> I wonder where the hidebehind is coming from? Who's conjuring it? For what purpose? Hmmmmmm  
> Thanks for reading! More to come soon ;D


	5. Chapter 5

Newt had fallen asleep by the time Percival returned. His bed sheets were delightfully comfortable and Newt had noticed, a blush tinging his cheeks, that they smelled like him, like pine and cedar and the wind before a storm. It wasn't long before Newt was dozing off, feeling warm and well fucked. And, he noted, heart fluttering, _happy._ He felt happy there, surrounded by things that reminded him of Percival, eagerly awaiting Percival’s return.

True to his word the meeting was quick, and Newt was drawn, blinking, from his light doze to the sound of the door of Percival’s bedroom gently opening and closing. He smiled into the pillow, humming when the bed dipped and Percival pressed up against him, his arm slinging around Newt’s waist. “How was it?” Newt murmured, turning slightly to face him.

When he did his heart fluttered at the soft smile on Percival’s face, a bloom of warmth spreading through his chest when Percival leaned in and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to his lips. It was still sinking in that this was real, that Newt could touch, taste—that Percival Graves wanted _him._

Percival’s palm was warm at the small of his back and the subtle possessiveness of the slight increase in pressure when Percival kissed him sent a pleased warmth curling through his stomach. “Tiring,” Percival said softly, a bit ruefully, “but necessary.”

Newt hummed again, one of his hands mindlessly drifting up to wind through Percival’s hair. Percival made that answering noise again that sent a strange, almost powerful thrill down Newt’s spine. That low, pleased rumbling was again sounding deep in Percival’s chest, and he pressed closer, eyes fluttering shut. Newt grinned. He wondered if anyone would believe him if he told them he could have one of the most powerful men in the country pliant and practically purring in his lap.

He said as much and laughed when Percival immediately grumbled, “I do not _purr._ ”

It didn't stop him from pressing into the touch, his head dropping to rest on Newt’s shoulder and his nose brushing underneath Newt’s jaw, the muted rumbling continuing as Newt stroked his hair. Newt gave a happy little sigh. Percival was like a furnace, radiating heat. Admittedly, in the summer Newt probably wouldn't have been quite so pleased, but in the prevailing chill of mid-winter it felt absolutely delightful to press closer to him.

Newt’s free hand lazily traced the line of Percival’s spine, ghosting gently over the muscles of Percival’s back. Now that the haze of desire from a few hours ago had passed, leaving him with this contented warmth in his chest, Newt’s fingers slowly drifted to faded scars on Percival’s skin he hadn't noticed before. The ones that drew his attention most were the numerous, angry slashes along the lines of his ribs. “Those never quite heal right,” Percival murmured drowsily, making Newt startle slightly. By the steady, slow rise and fall of his breathing, he’d thought Percival was asleep.

Newt hummed in reply, his fingers continuing their mindless exploration. “What are they...?”

“The wolf,” Percival answered, and Newt prided himself on the way he kept from stiffening, how the movements of his hand continued, fingers working gently against Percival’s scalp, “gets impatient. Sometimes it tries to claw its way out.”

Newt wondered if Percival’s sudden openness was a result of how tired he must have been, loose limbed and likely moments from drifting into sleep. It was a stark contrast to earlier that morning, when he'd been stiff and clearly uncomfortable. Newt eyed the scars with the new knowledge, noting how some were reddened around the edges. Freshly healed.

“I'm sure I have at least one from almost every creature I’ve come across,” Newt murmured pensively, carefully. “Except the mooncalves, of course, they're such utter sweethearts.”

Percival made a sound, somewhere between a scoff and a sigh, into Newt’s neck. “At this point, that hardly surprises me, Newt,” he mumbled dryly.

“That's too bad,” Newt quipped in reply, pressing a kiss against Percival’s hair. “I do so hate being predictable.”

Percival huffed, shifting slightly closer and nosing under Newt’s jaw. “Trust me,” he answered, yawning, “you're in no danger of that.” The words were vaguely grumpy and it made Newt smile.

“Have to keep you on your toes, darling,” Newt said fondly, grinning wider at the responding huff.

Percival fell asleep a few minutes later, his breathing deepening, even breaths ghosting over Newt’s collarbone. He must have been exhausted, with the hidebehind case on top of the transformation on the full moon. Newt continued the repetitive motion of running his fingers through Percival’s hair, hyper aware of the warmth of Percival’s skin, the scent of him, the deep, calming cadence of his breathing.

Newt slowly drifted off as well, a fluttering, contended feeling in his chest, his fingers still tangled in Percival’s hair.

* * *

Newt spent a lot of time with Percival after that, both in the Woolworth and in his apartment. Particularly, he considered dazedly, in Percival’s bed, and Newt was far, far from complaining. He practically spent more time in Percival’s apartment than he did at the Goldsteins.

Queenie’s reaction to it all had been almost startling. He'd completely forgotten to look out for it initially, still feeling pleasantly happy and light from the hours before, and Queenie had taken one look at him and clapped her hands over her mouth, her eyes betraying the smile. However, when she had come up to him, instead of the excited congratulations Newt expected her expression turned serious, and she murmured, “honey, if he breaks your heart, I'll chop it off,” complete with a gesture so Newt couldn't hope to escape her meaning.

He was certain his entire face had gone red. “That's not—that won't be...necessary,” he’d assured her, wide eyed, once again reminded that Queenie Goldstein could be quite terrifying.

The bright smile suddenly returned to her face and she winked at him. “I'm sure it won't, honey,” she said, waving a hand and turning away.

 _Quite_ terrifying.

Percival had taken to touching Newt more openly when they were in the Woolworth—his elegant hands coming to rest briefly on the small of Newt’s back or his shoulder or his arm even when they were among company, each time the gentle pressure making Newt blush slightly. The touches were often so subtle it seemed as though no one else noticed—they merely caught the tail end of red on Newt’s cheeks. Percival was absolutely doing it on purpose, a privately amused look in his eyes whenever Newt stumbled at a ghosting of fingers or when someone else asked if Newt was _alright, Scamander, you seem a bit...flushed._

He learned of Percival’s time at Ilvermorny, of Percival’s numerous exploits with his brother when they were younger, and, finally—more of a personal project—how to make a cup of coffee that could have Percival making that low, appreciative moan in the mornings that went straight to Newt’s cock.

Needless to say, Percival was often late to work those days.

In return, Newt told Percival about his time at Hogwarts, both the good and bad, about his travels, and most commonly about his creatures. He often rambled about how he thought laws, particularly those in America, concerning magical creatures could be improved, and it struck him initially that Percival really, truly listened, often noting down things Newt said.

Director Percival Graves was known for being outwardly imposing, powerful, even cold, but Newt knew Percival to be incredibly kind, passionate, caring deeply for the aurors under his supervision. He was a good man, and Newt reveled in the fact that that blatantly softer side of him, with gentle smiles and fond glances, seemed reserved solely for him.

Newt could feel himself falling for him more and more, that elated, expansive warmth in his chest whenever he was with Percival only growing.

Percival, unfortunately, was usually very busy in the Woolworth, but they often managed to catch each other for about thirty wonderful, but brief, minutes in the little cafe on the first floor. Newt sat waiting for him at their usual table, occupying himself with finishing up his notes on the knarls he'd encountered a few weeks ago. He glanced up, pensively tapping a pen against his lips, and caught sight of O’Brien passing by. Newt waved at him and O’Brien, catching sight of him, grinned and came over. “O’Brien,” Newt greeted him, smiling. He'd always liked the man—he was kind and loyal and friendly.

“Hello, Newt. How are you?” O’Brien asked easily, leaning against the table’s edge.

“Good,” Newt grinned. “And you?”

“Can't complain,” the man answered, quirking a brow, though his attention was drawn a sudden flash of his wand in his pocket. He shot Newt an apologetic look and quickly pulled it out, swiping it through the air and his eyes quickly taking in the floating image that materialized. Newt caught a glimpse of what looked like a map before it was dissipating, the wand returning to O’Brien’s side. “It'd be nice to properly catch up, but I really can't stay long.”

Newt eyed the wand curiously. He had come to recognize the few tracking spells used by MACUSA through Tina, and that had been one of them. “You're still following that man? The one from the crime scene?” Newt admittedly hadn’t given the man much thought, but it was unnerving to consider he may well be involved, that he had been quietly observing unnoticed, unchallenged. In fact, Newt considered with a chill, the man might have even heard what he and Percival spoke about that day by the water. All of Percival’s suspicions laid out. It had been windy, hard to hear, but—

Well. If you were prepared for that sort of thing, that wouldn’t matter at all. “Is he—has he done anything to make you suspect he might be involved?” Newt asked in a rush.

O’Brien sighed, mouth twisting. “He’s definitely a wizard, and that in itself could be cause for suspicion, but he hasn't done anything much besides buy some strange potion ingredients.”

“Like what?” Newt pressed.

“Um...Adder’s claw,” he listed, “doxy venom. But it’s nothing that would set off red flags.” He shook his head and said wryly, “everything he’s done has been irritatingly legal and up to code.”

Newt bit his lip pensively. He'd never used Adder’s claw in any potions himself, but doxy venom was a fast acting tranquilizer, though it was unpredictable, not used very often and therefore unregulated. He supposed it could possibly have something to do with the hidebehind, but when Newt had encountered it it had clearly been working at its full potential. Neither its speed nor its other abilities had been dampened at all. “Hm. Did you see where he got the ingredients from?”

“Little shop off 2nd street. The nomaj front is one of those new age crystal places—” O’Brien cut off when his wand flashed again, the light an abrupt, angry red instead. “Got to go,” O’Brien said, then glancing up and likely seeing Newt’s worried frown, he gave a curt smile. “I’m sure we’re just being overcautious. It’s not a bad thing. See you, Scamander.” He apparated away, the crack punctuated in the following silence, broken only by the murmuring of the few others in the hall and the echoing clink of silverware.

Newt slowly returned his gaze to the papers in front of him, though he was sure he wouldn’t be able to focus now. He didn’t know why he felt so...worried. After all, the man was already a suspect and they were the ones watching _him_ now. And he _hated_ feeling worried, it was against his principles.

But there was a nagging feeling he couldn’t quite shake. He quickly ran through what O’Brien had said, trying to pinpoint just what had struck him. Adder’s claw, he’d said.

Adder’s claw, hadn’t he...? Newt had read something on Adder’s claw a little while ago. He thought...he thought he remembered something about its restorative properties...that was good, wasn’t it?

And yet, there was still that sinking, ugly feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Hello, darling,” Percival’s warm voice filtered through, and Newt was happily broken from his reverie by a light kiss on his cheek and Percival sliding into the seat opposite. “Sorry I’m a bit late,” he said, that soft smile on his face that Newt loved, though it slipped away when his eyes settled on Newt. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Newt assured quickly, perhaps too quickly, though it was probably true. He was making something out of nothing. He added, quirking a playful grin, “though, as for your being late I don’t think I’ll be able to find it in myself to forgive you.”

Percival eyed him for a beat, but seemed to let it go, raising his eyebrows at the latter comment. “Well,” he said, leaning back in the chair, “if there’s no hope at all of forgiveness, I might as well just keep this then.” He gestured at the manila folder that’d he’d placed on the table at his arrival. Somehow Percival Graves could even make smug look charming.

“Why? What is it? Is that for me?” Newt asked, making a snatch for it, but it snapped out of existence an inch from his grasp.

“Might have been,” Percival said, amusement clear in his eyes. “Shame.”

Newt pressed his lips together, trying to contain his smile in favor of mock irritation. “Alright, fine,” he huffed. “I forgive you.”

“Big of you,” Percival quipped, unmoving.

Newt snorted a laugh. “ _Percival,_ ” he groaned, though his heart made a little stutter in his chest when Percival’s soft smile returned. “What is it? Don't keep me in suspense. I imagine it may very well be something bad given my track record,” Newt sighed.

“It's good,” Percival assured him, “I promise. Here,” he waved a hand and the folder reappeared, “see for yourself.”

Newt reached for it slowly, eyeing Percival suspiciously. Percival grinned and raised his hands. “It’s yours,” he said, though tilting his head he added slightly irritably, “admittedly it should have been yours a long time ago, but you know how slow the bureaucratic process can be.”

Newt opened it and upon reading the first line he grinned so widely it hurt his cheeks. He glanced up at Percival, who was looking at him fondly. “I thought...Tina said not to expect it at least until the end of the year—”

“I put in a rush order,” Percival said.

Newt beamed at him, dropping his gaze back to the official document, eyes skating over the words. _License of Consultation for MACUSA, Newton Artemis Fido Scamander._

“I half thought you were serious about barring it,” Newt murmured, glancing up after a beat when there was no answer.

Percival’s mouth was a thin line, his brow furrowed. “I...the things I said, that morning, I didn’t,” he sighed, “I didn’t mean any of it. I was angry, but that’s no excuse. I’m sorry.”

Newt blinked at him, surprised. “That’s not—it’s fine—”

“It isn’t,” Percival said, jaw tight, “at all. I said things I shouldn't have. I...the thought of you injured, especially when I couldn’t be there, when I couldn’t _do_ anything—” Percival cut himself off, glancing away. “It didn’t sit well. But again, it’s no excuse.”

Newt reached across the table and gently clasped Percival’s hand. “I assure you no forgiveness is necessary,” he said honestly, “but you have it all the same.”

Percival gave a soft smile and pressed a light kiss to the back of Newt’s hand. Newt couldn’t quite contain the answering blush on his cheeks. Percival’s smile widened at the sight of it, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Newt was absolutely sure Percival delighted in making Newt blush. “You’re ridiculous,” Newt grumbled halfheartedly.

“Am I?” Percival asked lightly, thumb brushing gently over Newt’s knuckles.

“Mm. I’m sure if your employees knew just how much they wouldn’t be quite so terrified of you.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Percival smirked.

“Speaking of your employees,” Newt began slowly, “I saw O’Brien earlier.”

“Did you? He hasn’t checked in yet. I’m thinking of reassigning him—”

“Why?” Newt blurted worriedly. “Shouldn’t—” Newt stopped, aware of the way Percival’s gaze was now lasered focused on him. “Shouldn’t you wait until the full moon’s passed?” he finished weakly.

Percival watched him for a beat, then said, “the man he's tailing hasn't done anything in the past few weeks that would constitute further investigation. I'm told he hasn't even touched any ingredients commonly used for summoning spells and there's nothing to link him to the hidebehind. It seems more likely his presence at two of the scenes may very well be coincidence. Even wizards frequent the park often enough that it's plausible.”

“But...I just think it'd be best to wait and see.”

Percival leaned forward, his expression serious. “Why do you suddenly feel so strongly about this? Did O’Brien say something?”

“No. Not really. I just...it's just a feeling,” Newt sighed.

Percival said nothing for a moment, his gaze considering. He gently squeezed Newt’s hand. “I'll have O’Brien remain tailing him until the full moon.”

Newt swallowed dryly and nodded. “Ok.”

And yet, the pervasive dread in the pit of his stomach refused to go away, settling like a rock.

* * *

The night before that of the full moon, Newt was reading comfortably in Percival’s bed, awaiting his return from work. It was already later than usual, and Newt’s attention was increasingly pulled from his book in favor of the ticking clock on the mantle. Just as he was beginning to really worry, he heard the sound of a door opening in the other room.

He smiled when Percival entered the bedroom, though he noted that Percival looked distinctly exhausted, even while he quirked a small smile in return and gave Newt a chaste kiss. Percival sat on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes and Newt came up behind him, wrapping his arms around him. “Long day?” he asked sympathetically.

“Mm. Prep for tomorrow. Had to get the team ready for a hidebehind.”

“You—you’ll try to capture him alive, I hope?” Newt asked tentatively.

“Ideally, yes,” Percival murmured. Then, glancing at Newt, he pressed a light kiss to the corner of his mouth and added softly, “they've been given all the information you shared with me. Capture is the first priority, I promise.”

Newt smiled and drew Percival into another, longer kiss, his hands coming up to cup his face. Newt hadn't had much of a chance to see him that day, and now he yearned to taste, to touch. “Good,” he murmured, grinning when Percival twisted and lowered Newt back down onto the bed, a strong arm wrapped around his back. “I can certainly help with the return to its natural habitat,” he said, hands running lightly over Percival’s chest.

“I count on it,” Percival murmured, eyes dark as he kissed his way down Newt’s neck, slowly making his way down the column of his throat to his chest, unbuttoning Newt’s shirt as he went.

Newt dropped his head back onto the pillows and swallowed, chest heaving under the wet heat of Percival’s mouth. Percival’s hand drifted down Newt’s stomach and slipped under his trousers. Newt let out a low moan when his firm grip wrapped around the length of his cock and stroked. Newt felt Percival’s soft exhale against his neck, his lips ghosting over Newt’s pulse. “Up for anything tonight, darling?” Percival murmured.

Newt’s hand carded through Percival’s hair and he paused to consider. Because there had been something, an idea he’d been entertaining... “Well, I've never...” he began slowly, “I mean, I've always been the one to...I’d like to try—” Newt cut off and sighed. Percival pulled back and gave him his full attention. “Do you think...would you be opposed if we...reversed our roles?”

Percival studied him, eyes dark. “You want to fuck me?” he asked blatantly, the words spoken so bluntly making Newt’s heart race. Newt took heart in the fact that Percival didn't seem at all opposed to the idea, his pupils blown wide and mouth parting slightly.

Because in truth Newt had taken to wondering what it might be like, to have Percival spread out underneath him, legs parted, panting and flushed with little noises escaping his throat as Newt pressed into him. “Yes,” he confirmed weakly.

Percival smiled and kissed him lightly, murmuring, “how do you want me, darling?”

Newt flushed, suddenly feeling short of breath at the thought. He hadn't...he hadn't thought it would be that easy. “Can I...? I’d...like to see your face.”

“Of course,” Percival answered, pressing back into the bed, hands ghosting over Newt’s sides. “Anything you want.”

Newt’s breath stuttered and he pressed down into a heated kiss, and they quickly divested themselves of any remaining clothing in between almost frantic presses of lips and the slip of tongues, their breaths coming shorter, faster. Suddenly, Percival was bare underneath him, cock flush against his stomach, eyes dark and anticipatory. Newt’s heart pounded in his chest and he hesitated, feeling a little lost. Percival leaned up and kissed him, fingers brushing Newt’s cheek, the other hand firm on Newt’s waist, guiding him to settle between his spread legs. The press of Percival’s mouth, the warmth of his palm on Newt’s cheek, the soft, adoring look in his eyes—it all, in the span of a moment, made everything easier, made everything feel right.

He watched Percival come apart underneath him, a beautiful picture of flushed skin, his mouth parted and letting out stuttered moans and breathless, lovely sounds, and it was all so much better than he’d imagined.

Afterward, when Newt’s head rested on Percival’s shoulder as they both relished the blissful aftershocks, Newt murmured, “you always say that.”

“Hm?”

“Anything you want,” Newt repeated, glancing up at him, chin resting on his chest. “But what do you want?”

The hand Percival had draped over Newt’s back came up and his fingers softly brushed Newt’s cheek and ran into his hair, the touch almost reverent. “Anything and everything you choose to give me,” Percival murmured softly.

Newt swallowed, meeting Percival’s gaze wide eyed, that feeling, bright and warm, ballooning in his chest at the expression on Percival’s face, something that looked like gentle adoration. “That’s not an answer,” Newt scolded lightly, fighting a smile.

Percival tilted his head and pressed a kiss to Newt’s hair, his thumb brushing the line of Newt’s jaw. “Isn’t it?”

* * *

The dawn came slowly, the sunlight that filtered through Percival’s curtains muted and warm and pleasant on Newt’s skin. Newt yawned, smiling lightly when he felt Percival stir against him. Percival stretched like a cat and slowly turned in his arms to face him. Newt once again reveled in the fact that he could just look and take him in: the way his hair was mussed and half flattened against the pillows, the sleepy, endearing smile, the look in his eyes soft. Newt leaned in, kissing him lightly, and felt Percival’s smile stretch against his mouth. “Morning,” Percival murmured, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Morning, love,” Newt answered happily, brushing some of Percival’s unruly hair from his face.

Percival’s arm wound around him and gently pulled him closer, and Newt grinned wide when Percival pressed a kiss to his cheek. Voice still low and rough from sleep, Percival murmured, “I love waking up to you.”

Newt flushed, his grin no doubt bordering on ridiculous. “The sentiment is very much mutual,” he said, his fingers running through Percival’s hair, and he smiled fondly at the way Percival’s eyes shut at the touch. The words were out before he could even think about them. “I could stay tonight, too, if you’d like.”

It wasn’t obvious, in fact, it was almost slow, but Percival stilled at the offer, eyes opening, suddenly unreadable. There was a brief silence in which Percival stared at him, expression closed off. Newt almost wished he could just take the words back. “No,” Percival said slowly, and Newt tried and failed to curb the abrupt sinking of his heart, “no, that’s alright.”

“Oh,” Newt said. He swallowed. “Well, I just thought that maybe...isn't it terribly lonely?” he finished weakly.

Percival sighed. “Newt, it’s fine,” he said, but he distinctly didn’t deny it.

“But it isn't!” Newt blurted, and oh, common sense in the back of his mind told him to stop talking, especially given the way Percival’s expression was visibly darkening, but his mouth continued, “why should you have to suffer alone—”

“ _Newt,_ ” Percival growled, “drop it.”

Newt could hold his tongue only for only a moment before he was blurting, “but if I can help—”

Percival sat up abruptly, pushing away the sheets and slipping out of the bed, swiping a pair of pants from the floor. With a muttered, “I have work to do,” he stalked out the door, slamming it behind him.

Newt stared at the door for a moment, before pressing his palms to his eyes and groaning. He had definitely mucked that up. After a few minutes spent cursing his stupid mouth, he slipped out of bed and went out in search of Percival, finding him at the desk of his study.

Newt closed the door gingerly behind him. He eyed Percival, saw the tense lines of his back, one of his hands supporting his head, fingers in his hair, the other writing on a form from that seemingly endless pile that always sat on his desk. Along with that towering pile, there was an empty potion bottle on his desk, the silver of the remaining film at the bottom telling as to what it had been. Wolfsbane always looked like smelted silver. Newt stared at it, a horrible, weighty guilt settling in his stomach. “I'm sorry,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Of course, it's your choice. I shouldn't have pushed.”

Percival sighed and dropped the pen, resting his head in his hands. “It's fine,” he said tiredly. “It's not your fault.”

Newt came closer, tentative. Slowly, he placed a hand on Percival’s shoulder, feeling the tension in his muscles gradually drain away. “It was...I wanted to offer some kind of...solace, I guess,”  Newt murmured miserably, “but of course I understand if you...don't want me there. It must be a very private, intimate thing—”

“No, that's not—” Percival turned to look at him, brows furrowed, expression almost pained. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked entirely exhausted, and if Newt hadn’t been with him the night before he would’ve thought Percival had had no sleep at all. He looked pale, dark bruises under his eyes, lines on his face more prominent. The moon was already taking its toll and it made Newt’s heart ache. He felt utterly useless in the wake of it all.

Newt bit his lip and glanced away, trying to keep frustrated tears at bay. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled thickly, “I know...I know you don’t like to talk about it, I should’ve just—”

“Hey,” Percival murmured, pushing up from the chair, warm, steady hands coming to cup Newt’s cheeks. Percival studied him for a moment, a quick flash of frustration passing over his face at whatever he saw before he leaned in and pressed a light, lingering kiss to Newt’s lips. “I need you to understand,” Percival murmured, pulling back slightly to look Newt in the eyes, “that it is because you're so important to me that I don't want you there. I’ve never...” Percival sighed and closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to Newt’s. “I've never had anyone with me before. For a reason. I can't...I can’t help but consider...” He swallowed, his throat clicking. “Potions aren’t infallible,” he rasped. “What if...what if the wolfsbane doesn't work and I...? I couldn't...”

Newt stared at him, eyes wide. He’d never heard Percival sound anything but assured and confident, but now there was the slightest catch in his voice, something almost like a tremble that had a lump of emotion forming in Newt’s throat. He surged forward, pressing a kiss to Percival’s mouth, pulling him closer, one hand winding in his hair. Percival, after a moment, wrapped his arms around Newt’s waist, his head dropping to Newt’s shoulder. “I understand,” Newt murmured, pressing a kiss to his hair, “of course, I do. I could...would it be alright if I came tomorrow morning?”

Percival exhaled shakily against his neck, his grip around Newt tightening. He nodded. “Yeah,” he rasped. “That’d be...that’d be nice.”

“And if...if you ever decide that you do want company,” Newt added tentatively, “of course, I’ll be there. If you’d like. As soon as you send the word.”

Percival pulled back and looked at him, eyes dark, some emotion in them that Newt couldn't quite place. He saw his throat work. “I don't know what I did to deserve you,” Percival said finally. “But I'm glad I did.”

Newt swallowed roughly, eyes wide. Anything he could have said in reply felt too small, not quite enough, and so Newt leaned in, thumbs brushing over Percival’s cheekbones, and kissed him. It was slow, gentle and sweet, and Newt hoped it conveyed everything he felt. He hoped it conveyed that happy, warm contentment he felt whenever he was with Percival, ever present and comforting and something Newt might have been able to give a name to with some great, four letter word that felt too big for his chest.

There was a sudden rustling sound from Percival’s desk and they broke apart to look at it. Percival’s notepad, the standard auror issue, was flipping open by itself, quick, messy handwriting appearing on the page. Percival reached out for it, his eyes scanning over the writing. He glanced at Newt and wordlessly handed the notepad to him. O’Brien’s signature, automatically appearing since the writing came from his own notepad, donned the bottom of the page. _Warehouse. 252 Fifth Ave. Connection to hidebehind. Can't stay to investigate, target on the move. Bring Scamander._

“Can you be ready in five?” Percival asked, instantly pragmatic.

Newt closed the notepad and nodded. He hoped this meant perhaps they could find the hidebehind before that night, end things before they truly began. Newt quickly got dressed, yanking on his coat. “Should I bring the case, do you think?” he asked Percival.

Percival looked considering. “We’ll wait until we know what exactly we're dealing with,” he said. “We can always come back for it if need be.” He held out a hand to Newt. “I know the address. It's near the park, one of the adjacent buildings we had cleared. I'll take us there.”

Newt nodded again and took his hand.

Their surroundings blurred, twisting away, and when Newt’s feet touched ground there was a sudden sound of metal clanking. He glanced down, distantly noting Percival drop his hand and step forward. There was a loose, metal grating lining the floor of this section of the warehouse, seemingly for ventilation judging by the warm air spewing from it. The cold surrounding air made it visible, a low cloud of steam hanging around their ankles.

Newt looked up, eyes searching. The warehouse was decidedly empty save for a few metal storage units and wooden crates. The cavernous room was devoid of any windows or open doors, the hanging lights from the ceiling turned off, and though it was a large space it somehow felt confining, claustrophobic.

It was quiet. So quiet he could hear Percival’s steady breathing, the slight clank of the metal grate under his shoes as he took another step forward, his eyes sharp and narrowing as they glanced around the room. A prickle of unease raced down Newt’s spine. Animals in captivity tended to make noise—if not cries then at the very least the stamping of feet or the slow rake of claws. Instead, the silence was almost stifling. Something was very wrong.

It was so silent, in fact, that the sudden crack of apparition directly behind him sounded like a gunshot, piercing through him with a jolt, the sound nearly masking that of his wand being yanked violently from his pocket. Percival was already whirling around, wand aimed and set to spew a spell, but Newt could only stand rigidly still. The wand point digging into his neck was enough of a deterrent, but there was also the arm that had pressed abruptly and roughly around his waist, a barely restrained strength behind it that made Newt nauseous.

Percival’s expression was carefully neutral, but there was a tenseness to his jaw, a hard set to his eyes when his gaze settled on something over Newt’s shoulder. Someone. “So it was you after all,” Percival said slowly. A muscle in his jaw ticked. "I'll admit, I was about to write you off."

There was a huff of breath, like laughter, that ghosted over Newt’s cheek. He closed his eyes, swallowing dryly, trying not to panic. He knew whose wand dug into his throat, even though he couldn't clearly recall his face. “I assume it was you who wrote that note?” Percival continued, and if Newt hadn't known better he would have said his tone was pleasantly conversational. “How did you get past the wards?”

There was a brief silence and then the man from the waterfront spoke. His voice was slow like molasses, deep and lightly accented, some of his words clipped as if he clicked his teeth on them. “They're not quite as impenetrable as MACUSA would lead the masses to believe,” he said, voice almost amused. Then, after a beat, he added, “it's also easier when the owner is no longer a problem.”

Newt stiffened and Percival briefly looked murderous. “You—”

“I wouldn’t worry over your little auror,” the man said, and Newt could hear the smirk in his voice, even as sorrow and disbelief rushed through him at the words. “He won’t be bothering us.”

Percival took a visible breath, his expression darkening, turning dangerous, a cold look in his eyes. His gaze dropped to the wand point at Newt’s throat before darting over his shoulder, dark and steady. “I want you,” Percival began evenly, slowly, “to think very carefully on what you’re about to do. Because if you hurt him, I will rip you limb from limb with my bare hands.” His voice had devolved into a veritable growl by the end, the words rumbling low in his chest and echoing through the room.

The wand point dug in harder, but it was the man’s answering words that made Newt flinch, that made that dread in the pit of his stomach feel like a punch to the gut. “Ah,” the man said, voice low. “There’s the beast.”

Then, slowly, “place your wand on the ground and turn around.”

“ _No,_ Per—” The sudden _silencio_ spell had Newt’s jaw snapping shut so fast it ached, his teeth clacking together hard.

“Now,” the man commanded, “or the next one severs his tongue from his head.”

Percival exhaled roughly, jaw tight, his gaze snapping up from the wand at Newt’s throat to meet Newt’s wide eyes. Newt shook his head minutely, but he could see, heart sinking, that although Percival’s wand was still aimed and steady, he was beginning to slowly lower it. He wasn’t going to risk it, Newt realized. He was going to comply.

That wasn’t acceptable.

Newt grit his teeth and sent his head snapping backward, fighting viciously to escape the man’s grip when he heard a satisfying crack and a muted snarl. He jerked to the left, finally giving Percival an opening. Percival took it immediately, the movements of his arm tight and controlled as he shot off ruthless, powerful spells that had the man stumbling backwards, but his grip on Newt became bruising, painful as he pulled him along. His shielding spells, however, were faltering under Percival’s onslaught.

Newt yanked away, twisting, but the man’s grip shifted and suddenly his arm was around Newt’s throat, and with a jerk that nearly took Newt’s feet from under him the man pulled him in front of him. Percival’s spells stopped abruptly.

Newt’s fingers dug into the man’s arm but it was immovable, like iron. “You’ll pay for that, liten slampe,” the man whispered, breath hot on Newt’s cheek. Newt jerked his head away as far as he could, an awful mix of disgust and fear rolling his stomach. To Percival, the man murmured, “perhaps, I was mistaken. You don’t seem to care for him at all.” The man’s wand point brushed over Newt’s cheek.

Percival didn’t show any reaction to the words—obviously meant to goad, but, Newt noted hopefully, his eyes were sharp, assessing, confident, his wand arm steady. “You’re all talk,” Percival observed levelly. “Because I think you know,” Percival continued, taking a step forward, eyes flashing when the man took a mirroring step back, pulling Newt with him, “that as soon as you even begin a spell—a real one, not just a parlor trick—you’ll be dead before you hit the floor.”

The arm around Newt’s neck tightened. The grating in front of where Percival stood spewed a cloud of warm air between them. There was a huff of breath again, like mocking laughter, and Newt could imagine a small, sickening smile. “You’re right,” the man answered evenly, unbothered, and ice shot through Newt’s spine. Percival’s eyes narrowed.

Then, with an audible grin, “I’m stalling.”

Before Percival could even properly react, there was a sudden explosion of black gas from the grating below, the cloud so thick and impenetrable that Percival disappeared within it. The horrible realization that immediately sprang to Newt’s mind was a distant thing in favor of the violent, desperate struggle to get to Percival. Doxy venom, when heated, was gaseous, dark as night, incredibly potent.

A bright spell broke through the fog, careening at them, but the man deflected it easily, sent it spraying uselessly across to the right. Percival stumbled from the fog, coughing, an arm over his mouth and the other holding his wand out, but it was wavering and he was lilting on his feet. He met Newt’s eyes for a moment, the brown of them foggy and clouded. Then, he dropped to the floor as if his strings had been cut, his wand rolling from his hand, slack and still.

Newt screamed his name soundlessly. The fog was slowly drifting towards them as Newt kicked and clawed and fought against the body behind him. He turned, catching a glimpse of the man’s face, of cruel, dark eyes and a leering smirk underneath a bubble of magic that covered his nose and mouth. The sight of his face, passingly familiar, brought a hazy memory from the waterfront, of those eyes skirting over him for the briefest moment.

Then, an acrid, burning stench filled his nose, making his eyes water and blur, and darkness encroached quickly. Newt’s legs gave out, but he didn’t fall, a strong grip, like iron, around his stomach keeping him up. It felt cutting, fingers pressing so hard they bruised. The last thing Newt saw was those eyes, flashing, intent and dark on his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *grins evilly*


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg I literally wrote and rewrote this entire chapter three different times in three different ways ahhhh  
> Lol sorry it took so long but that's why XD  
> Hope you guys enjoy and just fyi this one's a long ass one, 6k, so buckle your seatbelts
> 
> Update: this chapter is edited and I added some stuff because I realllyyyyy hated the way it flowed before, but now it's dope, enjoy guys :D

Newt was drawn, sluggishly, from unconsciousness to a strange sound. He didn't quite register it at first.

First, he was only aware of the incessant aching and throbbing of his head, the way it seemed to pound in his ears like the booming of a distant drum. It came with a stabbing pain in his temples, as if someone were drilling into them slowly. He let out a whimper when he shifted and the pain spiked.

He screwed his eyes shut tighter for a moment, took a shaky breath, and sluggishly opened his eyes. He could only see blurred edges and shaky outlines. Even though he could tell, distantly, that there was only a dim source of light, the world was still too bright, upended, and he could only squint uncomprehendingly. He was lying on his side, the ground hard and unforgiving and so piercingly cold it made his muscles ache. Though he could tell he was inside there was a sharp bite to the air, an unrelenting chill that brought to mind an indifferent storm of snow. He thought of the sound of howling winds rattling at the windows.

It was almost enough to distract from the metallic stench of the floor under his face and the sharper, chemical smell in the air that reminded him of a sterile hospital.

He hated hospitals.

The pounding of his head increased when he shifted slightly, the vague shadows in the cavernous space around him twisting and lilting. He hissed a curse under his breath, wincing. He reached for his wand in his coat pocket. He needed to do something about his infernal headache. Newt blindly rummaged through his pocket as his head swam, but after a few moments he slowly stilled, heartbeat spiking. His wand...

Newt jolted to a sitting position and the world jolted with him, everything going white and fuzzy for a moment. He clutched at his head, fingers trembling and eyes wide. This wasn't merely a headache—he'd been drugged, attacked from behind, his wand taken while Per—

Percival.

“Percival?” Newt glanced around, eyes wide, heart in his throat. Percival was nowhere in sight. He was still in the warehouse, surrounded by those towering storage crates, rusted metal shelves, the only sound being the hiss of warm air rising from the metal grating in the floor.

No. Not the only sound. There was that strange noise, faint, just at the edge of his perception, coming from behind him. And, with a sickening jolt, he recognized what it was.

The sound of labored breathing.

Newt whirled around, and saw a frighteningly still form lying prone on the floor behind him, the familiar coat filthy. Newt went cold. Percival’s face was angled away but Newt could see his arms lashed behind him with thick chains that gleamed ominously. Newt scrambled over to him, nearly sick with worry, panic encroaching dangerously and constricting his stomach. “ _Percival?_ Darling, please—”

Newt caught sight of him fully and pressed a hand to his mouth, horror and anger flooding him all at once. He was frighteningly pale, practically grey, sweating and shivering. There was a metal band around his neck, digging into his throat, hardly letting his ragged, weak breaths escape. A chain ran from it and wound around the metal grating, keeping him in place. Newt immediately reached out for it, desperate to remove it, but as soon as he brushed the metal his fingers burned and Percival let out a breathless, pained noise close enough to a whimper that it tore into Newt’s heart. “I'm sorry,” Newt whispered, guilt and panic a heavy weight in his stomach as he pulled his hands back, frustrated tears coming to his eyes, “I’m so sorry, darling, I'll get it off you, I promise.”

Percival remained unconscious, pale as death and shivering, his breaths too rapid and short. With shaking fingers, Newt cradled his face with his hands and brushed against his pulse. It was thrumming rapidly, his skin burning dangerously hot under Newt’s fingers. It couldn’t have been an after effect of the doxy venom—that was a sedative, known to dangerously slow the pulse. It looked like Percival was in _pain,_ his expression twisted, and it tore at Newt’s heart. This was something else, and that was even more worrying. Newt could only perform a few diagnostic spells wandlessly, but with one of them he might be able to determine what this was.

Because Percival should have woken up by now.

Newt pushed down the frantic worry and the growing panic at the pit of his stomach in favor of casting a spell that might tell him if something was still running through Percival’s system. Furrowing his brow in concentration, he passed a hand over Percival’s body, shuddering at the sensation that followed. He could feel a rush of... _something_ flooding Percival’s veins, something that ripped and twisted and raced, and Newt could only stand a few moments before he broke the spell, jolting backwards and breathing hard. He didn’t know what this was, but it felt _awful._ “Oh, God,” Newt murmured, trembling fingers brushing Percival’s cheeks.

Without his wand, there wasn’t much he could do, and not for the first time he cursed his inability to perform much wandless magic. Gently, Newt guided Percival’s head to rest on his lap, grimacing when the chain clanked as he moved. The desire to rip off that horrid collar burned under his skin, but it was obviously charmed against it. He hoped, at the very least, the new positioning would let Percival breathe easier. “Everything’s going to be fine, darling,” he murmured. “I promise.” The words came shakily, barely there. Merlin, he couldn’t even convince himself.

Newt glanced at the chains that bound Percival’s wrists. He could feel magic emanating from them, but an old, ancient magic. Binding magic, meant to suppress, contain. When Percival woke, they would prevent him from being able to use his own. There was a vile essence in the air around them, overly bitter, like the bite of an old penny.

At the very least, Newt hadn’t been hindered by the same. People often underestimated him, and, though it was a bit insulting, it was always immeasurably useful. But _this,_ ridding Percival of whatever vile spell or potion ran through his veins doing Merlin knew what—would require a wand.

Newt glanced up, eyes scanning the bare, stripped down warehouse around them. His mind played tricks on him with the shadows in the corners, with the dark, looming spaces of the shipping crates swinging open at their hinges. He easily imagined emerging figures with cruel, dark eyes.

Quickly, he cast his gaze away from those ominous shadows, and toward the weak light source hanging above. It looked like light from a lumos spell. The power to the building must have been completely cut off. It was bitterly cold and Newt thought his fingers might have gotten stiff, if it weren’t for the heat from Percival’s fever. He inhaled, the cold scorching his lungs, and exhaled shakily. In the menacing silence of the warehouse, he could just hear steady gusts of wind gently rattling the windows outside.

He needed to get them out of there, before that man, whoever he was, came back. Newt pushed aside all his questions—why had they been brought there? What was intended for them? What was wrong with Percival, why wouldn’t he _wake up_ —

He briefly closed his eyes and took another steadying breath. Percival couldn’t be moved, not with that horrid chain keeping him in place. Let alone the fact that Newt didn’t know if that would worsen his condition or not, and—

 _Merlin_ , what time was it? The full moon would be that night. The windows he’d heard rattling were tinted and gave him no clue as to the time of day. At the very least, he knew it wasn’t nightfall, because Percival had yet to turn.

Newt had to get them out before that happened. If Percival couldn’t be moved, maybe there was some way he could contact Tina? Or even... He paused. He hadn’t been left with magic dampeners like Percival. Did that mean...was he free to disapparate?

Though he was loathe to leave Percival’s side for even a moment, he needed to try it. He gently lowered Percival’s head and stood up, closing his eyes. He pictured the Woolworth’s Apparating Room and felt an initial, successful pull of apparition. The barest hope bloomed in his chest and he began to rush with urgency, but suddenly he was thrown backwards, having hit some strong warding around the perimeter of the building. He hit the ground hard, the air knocking out of his lungs. Newt groaned and clutched at his head as the room spun around him, lying still for a few moments to catch his breath. Clearly, he thought wryly, apparition wasn’t an option.

If they couldn’t get out, then he needed to find some way to contact Tina. Except he couldn’t send a message without his wand. But, he recalled, aurors sent messages without wands all the time.

Newt scrambled to his feet, racing back to Percival. He knelt beside him, once again feeling off balance at the sight of him shivering and pale. It felt _wrong_ to see him like this, and Newt had to push down a surge of impotent anger. There would be time for that later.

He gently brushed a strand of hair from Percival’s face, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his forehead. “We’ll be out of here soon, love,” he murmured, closing his eyes, silently pleading as he searched Percival’s pockets. With every passing second that his search was fruitless, his hopes sank. It seemed that Percival’s notepad had been taken.

Which meant that the man from the waterfront would have either Percival’s or O’Brien’s notepad—or both—still in his possession. If Newt could get close enough to lift one off him...

Well. That would mean _getting_ _close_ to him, which made Newt feel uneasy to say the least, as well as waiting for him to return. He could only hope the man would come back before sunset, whenever that even was. It was the barest, smallest hope that his semblance of a plan offered, but hope nonetheless. Newt could hold onto it.

Newt returned his attention to Percival, noting worriedly how he was still shivering and breathing rapidly. The awful metal collar around his neck looked too tight, like it was bruising, and just the sight of it filled Newt with so much righteous fury he thought he might burst. This was cruel. The magic dampening chains would have been enough, but the collar was a practice in humiliation. It felt personal, Newt realized, which didn’t make any sense. He frowned, considering.

As his thoughts raced, Newt used what little wandless magic he could to help Percival lean against his side, angling his head to rest on his shoulder. This way the collar dug in less, and the chain attached to the grating had just enough length to comfortably allow it. Though Percival wouldn’t have been able to stand up with it. Newt had to take a steadying breath to calm himself at the thought.

Percival was burning like a furnace against Newt’s side. He knew werewolves ran hot, but this was something else. Newt ran distracted fingers through Percival's hair with one hand and brought the other to his mouth, blowing on it. It was a simple cooling spell he knew of, simple enough that he could perform it without a wand. He pressed the hand to Percival’s forehead, the stark contrast in temperature initially making him wince. Parlor tricks, Newt thought glumly. That was what Percival had called that man’s silencing spells, and that was all Newt could do without a wand. Weak parlor tricks. Still, it seemed to lower Percival’s temperature slightly, for which Newt was thankful.

As the minutes ticked on, Newt’s thoughts wandered. They’d never seen the man from the waterfront before, so what vendetta could he have? What motive to summon a hidebehind, or frame a werewolf? He was involved, but why, and to what extent?

Newt took a shaky breath, biting his lip worriedly. He continued to run a gentle hand through Percival’s hair, wincing at every violent shiver, every ragged breath. He tried to keep his fingers from trembling. “Oh, darling, what has he done to you?”

“That would be the wolfsbane leaving the system,” a clinically detached voice replied.

Newt’s heart gave a jolt, and he immediately fired off a defensive spell at the direction he’d heard it from, his other arm wrapping protectively around Percival. His spell was practically obliterated by the swipe of a wand, but Newt still kept one hand raised and ready. The man from the waterfront studied him, dark eyes alight with interest. Newt barely remembered him from that day, the memory bringing only a hazy image. Now, though, Newt could see he was average height, bulky, with short cropped blond hair, and a square, flat face, like a bulldog. His lips had quirked into a parody of a smile at Newt’s spell. “Try that again, lovely,” he warned, tilting his head. His vowels were clipped and short, making the words sound sharp, giving them a vicious, dangerous edge.

“What do you mean?” Newt asked shortly, just barely keeping from gritting his teeth at the man. “What have you done to him?”

The man merely watched him, his wand raised halfway, as if he was still in the process of determining if Newt was at all a threat. Fine, Newt thought acidly, let him wonder. In the meantime, his mind raced, processing what the man had said. _The wolfsbane working out of his system._ He’d given Percival something that counteracted Wolfsbane Potion? But how, Wolfsbane was made nearly infallible for a reason, there was nothing—

Newt exhaled roughly, the pieces clicking into place. “Adder’s claw,” he breathed.

In his peripheral vision, that smile grew wider. “Very good, liten slampe.” Newt glanced up and saw those eyes spark with intrigue. The man leaned against one of the shipping crates, his wand still half raised between them.

“Adder’s claw is used for healing,” Newt murmured slowly, eyes studying the other man’s expression carefully. There was a dangerous curiosity there. “Particularly as an antidote for poisoning, so it wouldn’t usually have an adverse affect, except...”

“Except one of the most potent poisons known to wizardkind happens to be the primary ingredient of Wolfsbane Potion,” the man said. His eyes glimmered, but they were somehow still flat, stagnant. Those eyes were cruel, filled with single minded intent. They reminded him of a shark’s eyes. They would pair nicely, Newt considered slowly, with Weiss’ smile.

“Did you know,” the man continued, “that normal witches and wizards would die if they took Wolfsbane Potion? Curious, that what kills us is their salvation.”

“I did know that actually,” Newt snapped curtly, though internally he was beginning to panic. The man wanted Percival to turn without Wolfsbane? To frame him for the hidebehind attacks? But how, if there would be no one to witness him turn except—

Except Newt. Ah. He swallowed roughly. “Was it you who summoned the hidebehind?” Newt asked slowly.

The man’s smile quirked at the question, like the cocking of a gun. “Guilty.”

Percival’s shivering was becoming less intense and more sporadic. Newt didn’t know if that was good or bad, and it killed him, not knowing. He eyed the man, his gaze lingering on the pockets of his nondescript, brown coat. If he could just get close enough... “I imagine it would take great skill to summon one so precisely,” Newt said, imbuing his voice with a mild, hesitant kind of curiosity.

“Not one,” the man said shortly.

Newt blinked. “Sorry?”

“There were multiple.”

“Oh,” Newt said, genuinely surprised. “Wouldn’t that be even more difficult? Bringing them here and then returning them to—I’m assuming they came directly from Massachusetts?”

“Summoning them all that way precisely at nightfall was difficult enough, lovely,” the man murmured, chuckling as if Newt had said something funny. “There was no return for them.”

Newt frowned, processing, then felt a rush of anger and disgust when he realized. “You mean—when those animals disappeared at dawn, you—” Newt cut himself off, furious and growing more so at the man’s expression, as if he didn’t quite know what Newt was getting so worked up about but found it amusing all the same. “The spell killed them. _You_ killed them,” he finished, clipped, jaw tight.

The man shrugged, one shouldered, eyes flat and unremorseful.

“They are an _endangered_ —” Newt stopped himself abruptly. Though the man didn’t show signs of aggravation—in fact, he still looked highly amused and it made Newt want to strangle him—animosity would only distance them, and Newt needed to get at his pockets. Newt took a breath. “Why?” he grit out.

The man opened his mouth as if to say something, but only silence followed. The man’s expression shifted into annoyance, his jaw quickly shutting, and in less than a few seconds it was over.

But Newt _saw it._

“You can’t say,” he murmured in realization, dimly registering the way the man stiffened and his expression went dangerously hard. "You physically _can't_ say." Newt glanced up at him and tilted his head. He thought he might already know the answer, but he asked all the same. “Who are you working for?”

The man stared at him, eyes like pieces of flint. He glanced down at Percival and slowly smiled again, a slow crawl over his face. There was no mirth in it, no amusement. It could have been carved out of stone. “Time’s up, liten slampe,” he said, voice like the cut of a knife. He raised his wand. “Wake him up.”

Newt’s heart picked up, and he felt flooded with nervous energy. “I...I’ve tried—”

“He’s stopped his shaking. Which means either it’s done, or he’s dead—”

“ _What?”_ Newt glanced down at Percival, who was terrifyingly still, his expression slack and pale. And Newt couldn’t hear him breathing anymore. “No, _no,_ Percival, you do not get to do this,” Newt murmured frantically, cradling his face in his hands. He checked for a pulse, waiting agonizingly for the faintest flicker, but there was nothing but stillness. Newt stared at his face, a hollow, empty feeling carving its way through his stomach. “ _No,_ ” he choked out, stifling a sob at the back of his throat. “You don’t g-get to leave me like this. You can’t—”

“I’m disappointed in your half breed, lovely. He didn’t strike me as the kind to lay down and die.”

Newt stiffened, and didn’t recognize the animosity in his voice when he snapped his head up and bit out, “he _isn’t_.” He didn’t care to wait for a response, all his attention turning back to Percival. He looked pale and wrung out and _absent._ “Come on,” Newt murmured, tears beginning to fog up his vision. “Come on, darling. Come back.”

Newt waited in a horrible silence, desperately searching for any flicker of movement. His lungs felt too tight. He swallowed, his throat clicking, and he blinked back tears. “ _Please,_ fight,” he murmured shakily. “Darling, come back to me.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man heave a kind of sigh, and then aim his wand at Newt. “Shame,” Newt heard distantly. Newt turned to the wandpoint leveled at him. “Ah, well. I did say it would be simpler this way,” the man continued, almost to himself. The look he gave Newt was almost apologetic, and that sent his heart racing more than anything. “My regrets, lovely. But this will hurt.”

And at that very moment Percival’s eyes shot open, his irises as black as night, and a deep, guttural growl echoed through the warehouse. Newt glanced back at Percival, relief immediate, but there was something about that sound that had his breath stuttering in his chest. It was pervasive, rattled the air, sent chills running down Newt’s spine. He could feel it reverberate down to his bones. He saw, distantly, a flicker of fear cross the man’s face, his wandpoint wavering as his eyes went slightly wide. Percival’s gaze was locked on him, cold and dangerous and unwavering, his teeth bared in an animalistic snarl. If that look had been directed at him, even with all he knew of Percival, Newt might have actually felt afraid.

Newt could feel how Percival was practically trembling with tension, his muscles coiled as if he wanted to pounce, his chest heaving with great breaths. His arms strained against the chains, the links creaking at the almost inhuman pressure.

Newt had never seen a werewolf turn before. But he had heard it could initially be slow, minute changes taking over even as the sun crept below the horizon. “Percival?” Newt asked shakily.

Percival’s eyes snapped to him and for a brief, heart stopping moment, there wasn’t even a flicker of recognition in them. Then, Percival blinked, his brow furrowing, and the fog cleared. “Newt?” Percival’s voice was a low, weak rasp like the scrape of sandpaper, tired and thin, but hearing it again had Newt choking back another sob, relief slamming into him like a wave.

Newt surged forward and wrapped his arms around him, closing his eyes and squeezing tightly. He could feel the steadying rise of Percival’s chest under his palms—a normal, _human_ rhythm—and it was one of the best things he’d ever felt, but the chains were cold, the one attached to the collar near to growing taut as Newt pulled him closer. Newt itched with the need to get it off of him. "Are you alright?" he asked breathlessly, pulling back, his hands cupping Percival's face. Newt scanned him up and down, that lingering worry heavy in his chest. Percival still looked pale and exhausted, but his eyes were clear, if slightly dazed. 

"I...I'm fine," Percival rasped. Newt winced at the sound of his voice, hoarse, like the harsh scrape of gravel. Percival's eyes ran over Newt's face, finally settling on Newt's own, and he seemed to be silently asking the same. Newt nodded and tried for a smile, but he was sure it appeared strained, hardly reassuring like he'd intended. A muscle in Percival's jaw ticked. His eyes locked on the silent figure in the room with them and slowly, with a faint grimace, he shifted to settle on his knees, the line of his gaze never wavering. The chain running from the collar nearly went taut. 

Newt had never seen anyone look scornful and unfazed while on their knees, but somehow Percival managed it. His back was ramrod straight, the look in his eyes pragmatic, calculating. He looked dangerous, and Newt could imagine his magic thrumming and churning just underneath his skin, every moment threatening to burst from him. In that moment, Newt wouldn't have been surprised if Percival snapped his binds like they were made of paper. "What use to you," Percival asked slowly, "is a werewolf chained down?"

 “Those chains will disappear as soon as the moon is out,” the man said, and, turning to glance at him, Newt saw that previous smile was back, widening. He was leaning casually against the crate, wand lowered, as if he didn't have a thing to fear in the world. Newt wanted, suddenly and furiously, to see that smile wither and die. “You'll be free soon enough, wolf. A matter of minutes now.”

Newt inhaled sharply and looked up at the tinted windows that told him nothing, heart sinking in his chest. He saw Percival take a slow, purposefully even breath. His expression didn't even flicker, still a mask of cool calm, but Newt could see his hands were trembling.

The anger and fear and irritating helplessness coiled in his stomach, roiling like a wave, and Newt decided he'd had enough. Slowly, Newt began to stand. The man raised his wand at the movement, arm rigid, eyes hard. Newt heard the clank of chains, heard Percival’s warned, “ _Newt,_ ” but still took a step forward.

“You must know you won’t escape this unscathed,” Newt said slowly, staring into those sharklike, single-minded eyes. “You’re responsible now for the disappearance of two aurors. You think MACUSA won’t know?” The man watched him, a curious glint in his eyes, and said nothing. Newt wondered if that curiosity was the only thing letting him get closer. “We could offer you immunity,” he continued, carefully watching the man’s face. Newt tried not to shiver at the way his gaze dropped and raked over him. He just had to get a little closer... “All you need to do is stop this, and give us the name of your employer.”

The man tilted his head, a slightly condescending, almost sympathetic look on his face. He moved forward slowly and raised his wand, using it to brush hair away from Newt’s forehead. A sudden growl ripped through the silence, chains rattling and groaning as Percival strained against them. Though Newt wanted desperately to recoil, he used the proximity to quietly and carefully slip a hand into the man’s coat, and close it around an auror’s notepad. Sometimes his tendencies to fall on the wrong side of the law were very, very useful.

“MACUSA knows nothing, lovely,” the man murmured, assured.

“Erik, you sound so sure."

The words rang in the subsequent silence, razor tipped, like daggers. The man stiffened, all his attention turning to Percival, and it gave Newt the opportunity to quickly stuff the notepad into his own pocket. 

The man had his wand leveled at Percival, the look in his eyes wild, threatening. “What did you—”

“Erik Hagen. That’s your name,” Percival rasped, his own eyes cold, steady. “Isn’t it?” Newt glanced at Hagen, who looked, for the first time, truly shaken. “You're a hard man to find,” Percival continued, his tone almost conversational, but Newt saw the hard, shrewd edge to his eyes, the way they tracked any minute movement. “Took almost a full month for my legilimens to even divine your name, but a name can bring a lot to light. _Hagen._ Norwegian, isn’t it? Is that where you grew up? You still have the accent, must’ve lived there awhile. Admittedly, things would've been much simpler had we found some sort of document, but, of course, a man like you wouldn't leave a paper trail.” Percival paused and Newt held his breath at the charged silence. Percival smirked. “Or would you?”

Hagen let out a snarl of his own, his face contorted in anger. “You fucking—”

“I would listen to Mr. Scamander, Erik,” Percival cut in, voice hard. “Because if you do not cooperate, I can guarantee MACUSA will find you, no matter what corner of the world you crawl to. You will be found and my legilimens will drain you of every bit of information you keep in that skull of yours until you’re no more than a shell of a man. And then, Erik, you’ll face the chair, and I can make sure the only memories sweeping up to meet you are your very worst. You’ll beg for death even as it rushes at you.”

Hagen was white faced with anger, teeth grit, his wand arm trembling. “If it were up to me,” he ground out, “I would kill you now, chained like a dog. But perhaps what’s to come will be worse for you. I hope so.”

“Then you’re a fool,” Percival growled, his voice rumbling. He twisted sharply, snarling and yanking against the chains. Newt caught a flash of his teeth, and thought his canines looked slightly sharper. He looked close to feral, hair hanging in his face, black eyes narrowed, teeth bared. “You’ve sealed your fate.”

“Worry for yourself instead, wolf,” Hagen snapped back, mouth twisted. Then, coldly, he said, “mine is a face that’s easy to forget.”

Newt blinked, frowning at the strange statement. Warily, Newt took a slow, tentative step back towards Percival. Hagan’s eyes immediately snapped to him. He stared for a moment, then something decisive flashed in his eyes. “Another precaution, then,” he said.

Before Newt could react he flicked his wand in a sharp motion that had Newt slamming back into the side of one of the shipping crates. The air knocked out of his lungs and his knees buckled, but the spell kept him pinned upright, hard metal digging into his back. Percival hoarsely shouted Newt's name, but Hagen paid him no mind. He stepped in front of Newt and pressed his wandpoint under his jaw, forcing his head up. Any curiosity or hesitation or interest was gone from his eyes. “Goodbye, lovely,” he said simply, and a spell shot through Newt’s skull, racketing his head back and sending him crumpling to the ground.

His vision went white and his ears rang. He thought he heard the distant sound of someone screaming his name, but knowing anything for certain was beyond him for the moment. He felt like he was submerged in a cloud of static. There was only the harsh buzzing in his ears, spots dancing across the backs of his eyes. When sensation finally filtered back, everything was blurry, sounds muted and muffled. There was a sharp, metallic taste at the back of his mouth and Newt grimaced, shifting and pressing his forehead against the floor. The cold metal prickled his skin.

“— _ewt!”_

He shifted slightly, groaning, blinking away bright, flashing lights. The warehouse, in its grey, dismal shades, came back into focus.

“ _Newt, fuck—”_

Newt breathed in, a rush of air filling his lungs. He winced as sound came crashing back like a wave. Percival was shouting his name, his voice hoarse. Newt clutched his head in his hands and slowly sat up. He met Percival’s wide, concerned eyes. “Are you—” Percival began.

“I’m alright,” Newt muttered, though judging by the way Percival growled in frustration he didn’t believe him.

"I will fucking kill him if he did _anything—_ "

"I feel fine," Newt tried to assure. Percival swallowed, his eyes carefully looking Newt over. Hagen was nowhere in sight. He must have disapparated after casting the spell. Newt had no idea what that spell had been, but nothing seemed amiss after the initial shock. He could see, hear, had all his extremities. He was _alive_. Though, the fact that he didn’t even know what might have changed felt almost worse.

Newt slowly, a bit shakily, got to his feet. He took a step toward Percival. As soon as he moved, something primal flashed in Percival’s eyes, and his chest visibly heaved. He wrenched his eyes shut. “ _Stop._ Don’t.”

Newt froze, eyes wide. “It’s happening?”

“It's...you don't have much time,” Percival breathed shakily, “you need to get out of here,  _now.”_

“I...” Newt swallowed, his heart racing. "What about y—"

"Newt,  _please,_ " Percival begged, his expression twisting into something pained and panicked that Newt had never seen on his face before. 

“I... I can’t,” he said weakly. “The doors are magically sealed. I can’t apparate. But... the notepad—”

“Open it to a blank page,” Percival instructed quickly, his voice strained, “and say ‘the g-golden eagle flies, watchful.’ Then, dictate directly to it.” Newt nodded, a horrible feeling in his stomach as he took a slow step back. It felt wrong, to leave like that, to leave him, when every instinct was telling him to run to his side. "Newt?" Percival murmured, so weakly Newt almost didn't hear it. Newt paused, eyes wide. He saw Percival's throat work under that awful collar, saw his eyes rake over Newt's face as if he was studying it. As if he was trying to memorize it. "Tell them not to hold back."

The words sent a chill down Newt's spine, even the barest understanding sending him reeling. "Percival—"

"Newt," Percival murmured, gently interrupting, and his tone was suddenly too calm, too steady. It sounded like a goodbye.

"No," Newt croaked, shaking his head, his voice thick in his throat. "Absolutely not. I already...I already thought I lost you once tonight, don't make me go through that again."

"Newt." His voice was again gently placating, calm, but Newt could hear what Percival carefully tried to keep locked away. He sounded sad. "Call them, and it'll be alright."

Newt wrenched his eyes shut, swallowing against the lump in his throat. He could feel hot tears threatening to fall. "Don't lie to me."

Percival's answering smile was soft and fond and sad.

Then, the lumos spell at the ceiling flickered out, and Newt saw Percival go rigid. Newt stared, despair lancing through his stomach, as Percival’s breaths began to come in harsh, heaving pants and his eyes went foggy and distant. The chains dissipated, turning to finite pieces of dust, disappearing into the air. Newt could barely make out shadows, but he was just close enough to see the expression of agony that flickered across Percival's face. Percival doubled over, screaming through his teeth, but with what must have been the last of his concentration, he shot out a hand and cast a weak magical barrier that shot across the warehouse, effectively cutting it in two. It produced a weak source of golden light, eerily illuminating.

It wouldn’t hold, not for long. Newt knew he should retreat further into the warehouse, find some place to hide, but he couldn’t seem to get his legs to move. 

And, after all, where could he go? The wolf would be able to smell him.

Percival was shaking, muscles straining, in visible anguish as the change ripped through him. Hoarse screams echoed through the warehouse. Newt pressed his hands against his mouth, stifling a sob, unable to look away. The barrier projected towering, terrifying shadows on the walls behind, as bones popped and snapped and grew. The screams quickly changed to broken whines and harsh, labored pants. In less than a minute, there was an animal hunched over the shreds of Percival’s clothes, its head bowed. A wolf.

Newt had never seen a werewolf after the change, but he never imagined it like this. It resembled a true wolf, but much larger, and looked much, much more powerful. There were corded muscles that twitched under the dark fur, a silver so deep it was almost black. It had claws that would be unnaturally long on a normal animal, wickedly strong, sharp looking things that scraped slightly at the metal floor, the sound ringing menacingly.

Newt stared at it, his heart racing. For a few seconds, it did nothing but whine pitifully. Maybe...maybe the potion hadn’t worked? Maybe, Newt thought hopefully, it would still be Percival. He took a tentative step closer to the barrier. The wolf stopped whining, stopped panting, and went quiet. Slowly, it looked up at him. Its eyes had all of Percival’s cold intelligence, but none of the warmth. It stared and, after a moment, cocked its head slightly. Newt swallowed. “Percival?” he asked tentatively, shakily.

The wolf stared at him, one of its ears twitching. Newt took a closer step. The wolf watched him, its eyes unwavering. Newt scanned the body language, searching for any sign of aggression, but there seemed to be none. Hope began to bloom in his chest.

Then, without warning and faster than Newt thought possible, the wolf sprung, snarling. Newt fell back, his heart pounding. The wolf collided with the barrier and was knocked back, but at the blow the magic of the barrier flickered. The wolf was on its feet again in an instant, its muscles tensed and its eyes fixed on Newt. It threw back its head and let out a howl that sent chills down Newt’s spine. As much as he was experienced with animals, werewolves were among the few that could not be swayed or reasoned with, that were driven by one overwhelming instinct. And this one was moments from being able to fulfill that instinct.

Newt tore at his pockets, ripping out the notepad and nearly tearing its bindings in his haste to find a blank page. Newt saw the wolf watching him out of the corner of his eye, saw the pure hunger in its eyes, but still Newt hesitated. Then, the wolf snarled at him, huge jaws snapping just shy of the barrier. It remained there, nose a hairsbreadth away from the weak crackle of magic, its chest heaving, but it made no move to touch the barrier again. It was waiting, Newt realized, a chill running through him. Waiting for the magic to falter and fall, with no one there to maintain it. Newt had dealt before with animals that acted out of fear and aggression, animals that were clever and quick. He could predict those behaviors, he knew what to do in those cases. But never had he ever seen an animal like this, with the intelligence of a man and the mind of a beast. The animals Newt knew--even the magical kind--weren't ones that knew to wait on the fallacies of men.

He didn't know what to do, how to act, how he could begin to placate this kind of animal. Which meant there was only one choice left to him.

Newt scrambled to his feet and backed away slowly, rattling out shakily, “the golden eagle fl—” Newt flinched back as the wolf made a move for the barrier again, only to stop short of hitting it, it's breath ghosting over the surface. The magic flickered, and Newt began to feel truly afraid. 

The wolf waited patiently, claws clicking and teeth glinting, its muscles tensed, ready to spring the moment the magic failed. “The golden eagle flies, watchful,” Newt rushed out. Then, frantically, he rattled off the address, and said, “this is Newton Scamander, we need help now, at this location, _emergency,_ we need aurors at this location _now,_ but don't—” His voice cut out as Percival's words ran through his mind. _Tell them not to hold back._ A breathless sob escaped his throat. "Just—please, don't hurt him, its not his f—"

The magic fell, and in the next instant the wolf leapt forward, a blur. It landed in a skidded crouch, so close Newt could see the great breath it heaved in the air in front of him, and it slowly lifted its head to meet Newt’s eyes.

Every instinct in Newt’s body told him to run, every nerve screaming at him, but the wolf could clear a huge distance in a single pounce. Running would only kill him faster. Instead, Newt slowly raised a hand and tried to project calm, both emotionally and with whatever small burst of magic he could muster. The wolf did pause for a moment, its head tilting.

But only a moment.

In the next, it was launching toward him. Newt tumbled to the ground and the wolf was there, towering over him, its breath hot, bared teeth an inch from his face. It growled, loud and long, and the sheer force of the sound tore the breath from Newt’s lungs. Newt turned his face away, pressing his cheek into the ground, and wrenched his eyes shut. “Percival,” he murmured, “if you’re...I want you to know that this isn’t your fault, and t-that, of course, I forgive you, and that I—” Newt briefly paused, opened his eyes, and realized precisely what he was going to say before he said it. It felt cruelly ironic, that he would truly realize it now. “That I love you,” he finished brokenly.

Newt waited, accepting, but nothing happened. He slowly looked up to see the wolf staring at him, its teeth no longer bared, breathing hard. There was something, a bare flicker of something familiar in its eyes. Newt let out a breath, disbelieving. “Percival?” he asked shakily.

Slowly, so slowly it was agonizing, the wolf’s ears began to flatten against its head, and it let out a low whine, shuffling back slightly, lowering its head. Newt could practically hear his own heart thumping in the silence. He could have sobbed in relief. “ _P_ _ercival_.”

Suddenly, the wolf stiffened, head jerking up and eyes settling on something beyond, its ears perking up again. Newt heard it a second later—the sounds of shouting, spells firing from outside. The wolf threw back its head and howled, and Newt’s blood ran cold. “No—” Newt gasped out, but the wolf was already in motion, one of its hind legs clipping the side of Newt’s head as it flew over him.

The force of the blow sent his head slamming into the ground and pain split his skull.

Shouts sounded out beyond the warehouse. Newt blinked away something that dripped into his eyes. He fought against the swimming of his vision, twisting weakly on the ground, and could just see the wolf as well as the aurors that were moving to surround it. “ _Stop_...” He had to warn them, had to tell them that Percival was _still in there_ , but he couldn’t even hear his own voice. Darkness was encroaching at the corners, threatening to take him under. The wolf moved to attack, a barely visible blur of dark fur, and a flurry of spells flew in answer. Newt let out a barely audible sound of anguish.

Though he fought and clawed to remain conscious, the darkness was relentless, crashing over him like a wave, taking away the pain, the fear, the sounds of screaming and then the sound of a lone whimpering that he could just barely make out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun duuuuun. Another cliffhanger. What can I say, it just turned out really long, had to cut it somewhere ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow so this is like a rollercoaster  
> very angsty and also disgustingly fluffy?? somehow idk  
> enjoy!

This time, consciousness slammed into him like a truck. Newt jolted awake, snapping upright with the sound of that awful whimpering ringing in his ears, but he immediately regretted the movement. His head pounded unhappily—particularly the right side—and dizziness swept over him like a wave. “Easy, Mr. Scamander,” a kind, accented voice murmured, accompanied by a gentle, but firm hand guiding him back down onto the bed.

Newt blinked, focusing on the figure next to him. He realized, after a hazy moment, that he recognized his face. It was a man he knew from the Ministry, a colleague of his brother’s, who’d always had a bit of a soft spot for him. “Minister Dawlish?” Newt furrowed his brow in confusion, swallowing against the dryness of his throat. He was still in America, wasn’t he? Merlin how long had—what—

Newt struggled again to get up. Dawlish made a disapproving sound—it brought to mind the scoldings of his parents whenever he’d come home late and covered in dirt—but after what must have been a scalding look from Newt, he made no move to stop him. Newt quickly took stock of his surroundings. He recognized the rows of plain beds, the staunch whiteness of the room, the great arching windows behind him. It was the infirmary ward in the Woolworth. Newt met Dawlish’s eyes and no question seemed more pressing than the one that came immediately, the one that flooded him as soon as he opened his eyes. “Where is he?” Newt rasped.

Dawlish’s face went sort of pinched, and he sighed. “Newt—”

“Is he alright?” Newt pressed, a note of agitation encroaching.

Dawlish said shortly, after a brief moment, “Graves is fine.”

“I need to see him. Where is he?” At Dawlish’s clear hesitation, Newt blurted, “ _please._ I need—” His voice broke off at a particularly nasty throb of his head and he winced. “I _need_ to see him. I need to know that he’s alright.”

Dawlish stared at Newt, his hands clasped before him. He was seated in one of the visitor chairs, still clad in his Ministry uniform. “Newt, my boy, haven’t you wondered why it is that I’m here?”

Newt blinked, and paused, considering. It had been years since he’d seen Dawlish, and as much as the man was a friend of the family, he wouldn’t drop everything to cross the Atlantic because he’d heard Newt was clocked in the head. “The Ministry’s involved,” Newt said slowly. There was no real look of confirmation or denial in the man’s face, but Newt thought he’d guessed right. He just didn’t know what that meant, and he was slightly afraid of the answer. “Why?”

Dawlish sighed. “It was...determined that an objective, unrelated party would be needed to assess the nature of this case, particularly because it involves such a high ranking member of—”

“Wait, you mean...he's being prosec—” Newt cut off, horrified. “It wasn’t his fault. He—this was done _to_ him—”

“By whom?” Dawlish interrupted, his voice serious.

“His name was Hagen. Erik Hagen, I don’t—” Newt swallowed roughly. “I don’t know why you need it a second time, surely Percival told you.”

Dawlish took out a notebook from his coat and wrote the name down. He leveled a pensive gaze at Newt and said nothing for long enough that Newt felt like exploding up from the bed and storming out right then and there. Finally, the other man said, “Newt, I need to ask for your account of what unfolded last night.”

“And I will tell you, gladly, but I want to see Percival first,” Newt replied levelly, beginning the process of slowly extricating himself from the tangle of sheets. “Now, if you would so kindly tell me where he—”

“Newt,” Dawlish began in an already patronizing tone that had Newt bristling, “you’ve barely recovered from sustaining a very nasty head wound, and quite frankly, I don’t think running to the man who caused it is the best—”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Newt snapped.

Dawlish’s expression became more gentle, and only slightly patronizing. “Of course, it wasn’t.”

Newt stared at him, feeling a sudden surge of annoyance mingled with an increasing desperation to see Percival—to see him whole, unharmed, to see his familiar features turning relieved and then fond and warm when he saw Newt walk into the room. Newt closed his eyes. “Please, Dawlish. Is he...is he here somewhere, in one of the interrogation rooms?”

Silence for a few moments. Then, Dawlish said, clipped, “he's under house arrest.”

The words felt like a stab in the stomach. “Oh my God,” Newt croaked. “He's not—what right do you have to treat him like a criminal, he's the furthest thing from it and you _know_ it—” Only, he realized, Dawlish _didn't_ know it because he barely knew Percival at all, and now men who barely knew Percival at all would be the ones to review and judge his case. The case where it appeared on the surface as if Percival hadn't taken Wolfsbane and had subsequently injured someone. Newt thought he might be sick.

At least Dawlish looked apologetic. “Newt, my boy, he broke the law. Inadvertently, or not, _though,_ ” he hastily added when Newt immediately made to protest, “if it is the former, the charges will be increasingly less severe, I assure you.”

_If._

“I need to see him,” Newt murmured shakily, pushing away the covers, his legs trembling when he tried to put his weight on them. He caught a flash of movement at the corner of his eye and glanced at it. There was a mirror by the bed. Newt stared at himself for a moment. He looked pale. Paler than the sheets, still in last night’s clothing, though they thankfully seemed to have been cleaned. But there was something distinct that caught his eye, something different. He turned his head slightly. There. Barely noticeable unless you looked closely, unless, like Newt, you were about a foot away. From mid cheek to just above his brow bone running into his hair, were four long, thin slashes, masterfully healed, but slightly scarred.

Werewolf wounds always scarred.  

At the corner of his eye, Dawlish’s face creased in concern, but Newt barely noticed it. After a moment, he shook himself, and stepped away from the mirror. One more to the collection, he supposed. He was no stranger to them. Instead of dwelling, he thanked Merlin that the Infirmary was one of the few wards that allowed apparition. Medics had to be quick, after all.

“People have been waiting to see you,” Dawlish said quietly. Newt paused, glancing over at him. “Two women, an auror and a legilimens. I’ve no doubt they're still just outside those doors.”

Newt felt a sudden surge of guilt. But then he thought of Percival, alone, in a home once his now turned against him, guarded and warded. “Please tell them I’m alright. I’ll be back soon.”

* * *

Newt apparated outside of Graves’ apartment, nearly bursting at the seams with the need to see Percival with his own eyes. Second hand accounts weren't nearly enough. Abernathy leaned against the porch entryway, and Newt thanked Merlin that the auror assigned there was at least someone he was somewhat familiar with. Still, Abernathy stiffened when he saw Newt approach, his expression shuttering. “Newt—” he began warningly.

“Please,” Newt pleaded. “Please, I need to see him.”

“Scamander, no one’s allowed in.”

 _Or out._ The words were unspoken, but Newt saw them in the way Abernathy clenched his jaw, and suddenly the reality of it all hit Newt like a blow to the stomach. It was against federal law for a werewolf to turn without Wolfsbane. And, despite everything Percival must have said, that was what everyone believed had happened. “He's innocent,” Newt choked out. “You've worked with him. You _know_ him.”

Abernathy stared at him, his expression unreadable. He supposed it was advantageous for aurors to be hard to read, but at the moment all he wanted was to know what the other wizard was thinking. He saw Abernathy’s eyes linger on the side of his face, before settling, level, on Newt’s own. “That looks like it stung.”

Newt took a breath, gritting his teeth. “It was an accident.”

Newt had never been close with Abernathy, not like he was with Tina or Queenie, but he could have sworn there was a flash of concern that crossed Abernathy’s face. “Scamander...”

“Please. I haven’t—” Newt’s voice cut out for a moment, and he shut his eyes briefly. That whimpering sound rang in his memory. He grit his teeth so hard it hurt. “I haven’t seen him since...I need to know that he’s alright. In the warehouse, I thought—” He cut off, and swallowed hard. “Please, Abernathy, that’s all I ask. I just need to see him.”

Abernathy stared at him for a long moment, then sighed. “Jesus,” Newt thought he heard him mutter. “I am going to go for a very quick smoke break,” he said blandly, waving his hand so a hole appeared in the warding, “during which time I'm sure no one will enter or exit this building.”

Newt exhaled sharply, relief and gratitude flooding him. Without thinking, he lunged forward and drew Abernathy into what turned out to be a slightly stiff, awkward hug. “Thank you,” he murmured, the words almost sticking in his throat.

Abernathy jerkily patted Newt on the back once and pulled away, his face noticeably redder. “Don't thank me,” Abernathy muttered, pulling a cigarette from the case in his coat pocket. He pinched the bridge of his nose, a look of exhaustion crossing his face. “Lord knows I fucking need it.” Abernathy brushed past him, but paused on his way down the steps, and turned back to Newt. After a brief moment, he said, almost expressionless, “just be careful with him, alright?”

Newt stiffened. “He won’t hurt me.”

Again, Abernathy’s eyes moved to the side of Newt’s face. He raised an eyebrow, taking a drag from his cigarette. The smoke curled in the crisp winter air. “That's not quite what I meant,” Abernathy said, and there was a somber note in his voice that gave Newt pause. Before he could ask after it, Abernathy was gone.

Newt blinked at the spot Abernathy had just occupied, wincing and pulling at his coat when a sudden breeze bit through the few layers he wore. It helped to shake him from his confusion and the abrupt feeling of unease he’d felt at Abernathy’s parting words. He turned on the steps and pushed open the door.

The apartment was a mess. Furniture was overturned, the bookshelf that lined the wall that lead to the living room had fallen and partially blocked the hallway. Books littered the floor underneath, spines cracking, pages curling. Newt balked at the sight, coming to a stop. The quiet was a strange counterpoint to the mess. The curtains were drawn, blocking the sunlight, so Newt could easily make out the orange flickering light coming from the partially open door to the living room. He made his way towards it, heart in his throat. Through the crack in the door, he saw the fire slowly flickering weakly, as if it had been left untended for a long time. Broken glass littered the floor in the corner. Whiskey from a half empty bottle dripped steadily into the carpet. Percival sat in the armchair by the fire, his head in his hands, fingers buried in his hair. Though he was still, he looked tense enough that he might snap in half, his hair a mess, hanging into his face. Newt couldn't see his expression. 

But Newt saw him, and everything else became unimportant. He rushed forward, pushing the door open. At the sound Percival twitched. “Abernathy,” his voice came, a weak rasp, “I told you—” Percival glanced up and immediately cut off when he saw Newt, expression turning to one of mingled incredulity and relief. He shot to his feet and took an instinctive step forward, only to visibly stop himself mid movement, his hand outstretched. Newt saw his throat work. “Newt,” he murmured, voice almost inaudible. Several things flashed over his face, but what struck Newt most was just how _lost_ he looked when he said, “what...what are you doing here?” Then, with a note of strangled panic, “are you—they said...are you alright?”

The words jolted Newt into movement. “I’m fine. I'm fine, I promise, I just needed to see _you_.” He came close enough to take Percival’s face in his hands. Percival didn’t look injured apart from a few bruises, and Newt thanked the stars for that, but _Merlin_ , he looked like he hadn’t slept at all in weeks. He had dark smudges under his eyes, he hadn't shaved, and he wore loose, ill-fitting clothing that didn’t even look like his own. Maybe it wasn’t. A sudden memory of the sound of fabric tearing mingled with the sound of hoarse screaming rang in his ears for a moment. Merlin, he'd really thought... Newt took a uneven breath, briefly closing his eyes, and tried to keep his hands from shaking.

Percival stiffened. “You’re afraid.” His voice was trembling.

Newt pulled back slightly, wide eyed. Percival wore that impassive mask, but in the moment it was ill-fitting, thin. Underneath was a clear and gut wrenching look of devastation. You’re afraid, he’d said. _Of me._ He wondered how long Percival had worried that such a ridiculous thing might be true.

“No,” Newt murmured gently, brushing Percival’s hair away from his face, making sure Percival met his eyes. “No, darling, I just...I was so worried, I thought that...” Newt trailed off at the way Percival was looking at him.

No, not quite at him. At the side of his face.

Percival’s hand reached out, shaking, his eyes trained on the slight scarring Newt had already forgotten about. “Did...did I...?” His voice was barely a whisper, and he looked stricken, worryingly pale.

Newt froze, words stuck in his throat. He couldn’t _lie_ to him, but the truth wouldn’t be taken well either. Silence, he was beginning to see, was infinitely worse than either. Percival was filling in the blanks for himself. “It was an accident,” Newt whispered desperately. Percival jerked his hand back as if he’d been burned, an awful, horrified look on his face. “No, Percival—Percival look at me.” For a moment, nothing changed, Percival remained staring, stricken, at the side of Newt’s face. Then, slowly, wide brown eyes settled on his own. Newt released a shaky breath. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said adamantly. “It’s Hagen’s—him and whoever is pulling his strings. They did this. Not you, and you know it, love. It’s not your fault.”

Percival stared at him, that stricken expression still on his face, though something like stark confusion flashed over it for a moment. “Hagen?”

Newt blinked, shaking his head slightly to try to clear the sudden spike of unease. “Yes, Hagen.”

Percival looked at him blankly, as if Newt was the one not making any sense. “O’Brien’s tail?”

He spoke the words and they were stripped of all meaning. Newt stared, his mouth opening and closing as he fought for something to say. Realization felt like ice in his veins. He tried to keep his fingers from trembling against Percival’s skin, tamped down on the desire to clutch him closer.

 _I need to ask for_ your _account of what unfolded last night._

_Be careful with him._

"You..." Newt whispered, horrified.

_Mine is a face that’s easy to forget._

Newt briefly closed his eyes. “You don’t...” He swallowed, feeling as if a vice were slowly being tightened around his throat. “You don’t remember, do you?”

Percival shook his head slowly. “The medics said...memory loss isn’t uncommon in those who...” Percival’s throat worked, his eyes once again on the side of Newt’s face. His voice sounded slightly bland, as if he were reciting something. “Who abruptly stop taking Wolfsbane.”

Newt felt like he’d been punched in the stomach, all the air leaving his lungs. “No. No, you did take it,” he breathed, eyes wide.

Percival didn’t quite look like he’d heard. In fact, he looked a bit like he was going to be sick. “How...” His voice hitched, and his expression _crumpled._ “Newt, how can you even stand to look at me?”

Newt was aware that his tone became a bit frantic when Percival began to pull away, he was _aware_ that it was certainly not helping the spiraling panic he could see on Percival’s face or the way he seemed to be beginning to hyperventilate. But Newt couldn’t seem to stop that panic from affecting him too. “No, darling, you weren’t—it wasn’t—” Then, more panicked, “Percival breathe, breathe, love—”

Percival’s breaths came short and fast, and he was trembling violently, his pupils blown wide. “Newt—what have—how could—” He looked worryingly pale, and, focusing on Newt, eyes too wide, his expression twisted into a heart wrenching look of guilt and horror. “Christ,” he breathed, “I could've killed you.”

Newt rushed forward when it looked like Percival’s knees were about to give out. He wrapped an arm around him and slowly guided them to sink down to the floor against the wall. Newt took a quiet, deep breath, violently shoving away his own panicked thoughts of Dawlish and interrogations and Wolfsbane. “It's alright, you're alright, breathe with me, darling. That’s it.” Percival shook like a leaf against his side, breaths coming in almost desperate, fevered gasps. Initially, he remained tense, leaning away from Newt so that his hand rubbing circles against his back felt less of a comfort and more of a thing to keep Percival in place. Instinctually, it stung. Slowly, Percival drifted closer, almost reluctantly, _guiltily,_ like he thought at any moment Newt would shove him away and demand to know what he was doing. It was a sobering realization, one that made him suddenly and acutely want to cry.

It took a few minutes, but Percival finally drifted close enough that Newt could comfortably guide his head to rest on Newt’s shoulder. His fingers gently ran through Percival’s hair. The familiar action seemed to help them both. Percival’s nose brushed his neck, just above where it met the shoulder, just above the flap of the coat he hadn't bothered to shed. Percival’s eyes slowly fluttered shut, and he was gradually beginning to breathe more evenly. The light from the fire was dim, casting an almost pink hue around the room, on Percival’s face. Newt could just barely see the shadow of his eyelashes. He wasn't quite sure when he’d begun, but he was humming, an old, familiar song his mum had used to sing to him, whenever things got too much.

It was otherwise quiet between them. It was a moment, Newt supposed, like the calm before the storm.

Because there would be a storm. But that night, he didn't think either of them were remotely ready to face it.

“That’s French,” Percival murmured, almost incoherently, unmoving, quiet enough that Newt almost didn't hear.

“What?”

“The song. Do you know the words?” He sounded utterly exhausted, the words barely a gust of air. Newt’s mind unwillingly ran through what his night must have consisted of. Confrontation and capture in the warehouse,—who knew what injuries he may have sustained that they'd managed to heal—then the painful transformation back, in what must have been a holding cell, before he'd been allowed here. Cold, alone, confused, told that he'd put Newt in the infirmary but also that he couldn't see him. Unable to remember any of it.

Newt closed his eyes when he felt the hot sting of tears. “Yes. I do.”

Percival didn't say anything more, didn't ask him to sing it, didn't press.

_What do you want?_

_Anything and everything you choose to give me._

Newt suddenly, desperately wanted to give him everything. He slowly, softly, and without much elegance at all began to sing around the sudden thickness of his throat. It was almost surprising how easily the words came to mind. He was certainly not quite on key, and his voice kept cutting in and out from how quiet he was trying to be, but it almost felt like, with each moment that passed, the lingering tension he felt in Percival’s muscles was slowly fading away.

And yet Percival’s arm was almost gingerly wrapped around him, light fingertips at his waist, the touch almost not there. As if Percival still thought Newt would jerk away at any moment, and was sparing him most of the trouble.

Percival’s nose was practically buried in the crook of Newt’s neck. His breathing was calm now, his chest moving in deep rises and falls. Occasionally, when they lied in bed, tangled up in each other, Percival would bury his nose in Newt’s hair or under the curve of Newt’s jaw and just breathe. Newt had a sudden hysterical urge to ask what he smelled like.

“What do I smell like?” Newt asked suddenly, because he never had much of a verbal filter anyway, and because he was suddenly sure that if he tried to choke out any more of the words he might start crying.

Percival stilled, and went quiet for a long time. But he didn't pull away, and he didn't start spiraling into another panic attack, which Newt took as a good sign. His breathing remained steady and even. It was hard not to take comfort in it—the way Percival's chest rose under the splay of his hand, the warmth of his skin that bled through the thin, cotton shirt. Newt was the one who was supposed to be _giving_ comfort, for Merlin’s sake.

“My mom had this cabin, back in Ireland, that she inherited from her mother,” Percival said distantly, his voice almost wistful. Newt blinked. It hadn't quite been the answer he’d expected. “We went there sometimes when I was a kid. It was right on the water, looking over the waves slamming into the bluffs. You could walk ten yards from the door and fall off the face of the world.” Newt listened wide eyed, a strange feeling in his stomach and his chest, as if he was holding his breath. “The grass was unkempt. We didn't employ a gardener, so it just grew and grew, until it was almost taller than I was. There were these wildflowers there, dozens of them, smattered around like...like flecks of paint, and the roses my mom stubbornly planted. With her gardening skills I was shocked they even stayed in the ground.” He let out a huff, a laugh that he didn’t quite have the energy for. “Somehow they stuck. There were so many colors it almost made you dizzy looking at them. I liked to sit out there. Where the roaring of the sea drowned everything else out. Sometimes, in the late afternoon, the wind would pick up, coming off the water. It'd make a whistling sound as it blew through the spaces between the rocks. The grass and the flowers would just...bow towards you, and it just...hit you all at once. The spray of the ocean, the blinding color. The smell of flowers, the wind in your hair, and the warmth of the sun slowly sinking over the water. It's like that. You...” Percival swallowed. “You remind me of that. That moment, that feeling.”

Newt’s throat felt thick, and his view of the wall opposite, flickering in the gentle light, went blurry. He felt like laughing and smiling and crying all at once, that blooming warmth in his chest almost too much. “Oh,” he said, and his voice came out wobbly, gusty, on an exhale.

Percival froze at the uneven note, then slowly pulled away and looked at him, and Newt could already see his expression creasing back to that heart wrenching _guilt_ that he should have never had to feel. Newt took his face in his hands, his fingertips just brushing the short shorn hair above his ears, and kissed him, long and lingering, pressing everything he felt into it. Percival initially went stiff, then plaint, warm and willing but only barely reciprocating, and Newt, with a sharp lance through his heart, knew why. It was because Percival thought that _that_ , at the most, was all he was allowed. So Newt gently pulled away, a hairsbreadth of distance really, and met Percival’s dark, slightly dazed eyes, and said, “I love you.” Before Percival could react beyond a slight widening of his eyes, Newt sniffed, let out a strange laugh sob, and blurted, “I love you so much sometimes I feel like I don’t quite know what to do with it all. I think,” he murmured, grinning, and Merlin he must have looked ridiculous, red faced and flustered and teary eyed but he couldn’t find it in himself to care, “that you are entirely wonderful. I love you for everything that you are, Percival Graves, and I want you to know that that will always be true. No matter what happens that is true.”

Percival stared at him. There was something fragile in his expression. It looked like he was furiously fighting off any trace of hope that came close to crossing his face. “But—”

“No, none of that,” Newt breathed. “No sub clauses, or provisions. I love you without strings. And I know...” he swallowed, took a breath, and continued, “I know you think that I might be angry with you, or that I might... _blame_ you, but I need you to know that I’m not and I don’t. Of course I don’t. I couldn’t possibly, love.”

Percival made a sound like a short, choked sob and finally closed the scant distance between them, wrapping his arms around him, pulling him close. “How...Newt, I don’t...” He made that sound again, close enough to a sob that Newt’s grip around him tightened instinctively. “I thought—”

“I know,” Newt murmured. He pressed a kiss to Percival’s hair. “I know, love.”

“Do you?” Percival asked quietly. “I thought I’d lost you in an instant.” He pulled back slightly, his warm, broad hands cradling Newt’s cheeks. His eyes bore into Newt’s with an intensity that had him holding his breath. “I thought, at best, you’d never want to see me again, and that would be no less than I deserved.” Newt immediately made to protest, but cut off abruptly when Percival smiled and huffed a laugh at his expression. It had already felt like years since he’d seen Percival smile, and he couldn’t quite look away. “And I have no idea,” Percival continued, staring at Newt with that uncharacteristically vulnerable look in his eyes, “what I’ve done to deserve _that,_ your absolute forgiveness, in an instant, but...” His throat worked. “I’m glad I did.”

“Oh, darling,” Newt murmured, his throat thick. He pressed their foreheads together. Percival’s thumbs brushed his cheeks.

“I love you,” Percival breathed. “I love you, and I am so sorry.”

Newt tamped down on the immediate instinct to blurt out how Percival had no reason to be, how everything was fine. He had a feeling that as much as he asserted that fact, Percival still wouldn’t quite believe him. Instead, Newt met his eyes, and asked slowly, “how...what’s the last thing you remember?”

Percival swallowed, and his brow furrowed. After a few moments, he murmured tentatively, “we were...we were here. In...in bed?”

“Do you remember the note? From O’Brien?” Newt asked.

Percival looked at him blankly, and shook his head. So he didn’t remember what had brought them to the warehouse in the first place, or anything beyond. A thought immediately came to mind, one word that Newt couldn’t help but think. Convenient. Perhaps, Newt thought, it wasn’t the loss of Wolfsbane that was to blame for Percival’s inability to remember. He had said in those cases memory loss wasn’t uncommon, but it also wasn’t _guaranteed._ It was an ideal cover. But who knew what had been in that potion Percival had been given. It could have easily helped things along. It seemed as though a lot hinged on Percival’s inability to defend himself properly, and Newt—

Well. Newt had been meant to die there. He was meant to have been silenced. He was sure of it.

And yet.

“Newt?” Percival prompted.

Newt refocused on Percival, on his brown eyes, wary and alight with concern. If things hinged on Percival’s not knowing... Well. He could fix that. “I need to tell you,” Newt said firmly, “ _exactly_ what happened.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What will happen next I wonder??  
> So Dawlish I sort of intended to be that same guy from the movie when they're in that international MACUSA meeting and Newt and Jacob exit the case, and then there's that British guy who seems to know Newt somewhat and he's all fondly scolding like, "what are you /really/ doing here?" --yeah that's Dawlish lol  
> Also, if anyone's curious, the song that Newt sings to help ground Percival is La Vie en Rose by Edith Piaf, and yes, I know it came out in like '45 or something but when have I ever played by the rules and also these two deserve a really sweet, romantic french song, sue me  
> Also I just realized I've used like a hundred of these things — in this chapter jesus i need to be stopped


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a monster omg like 6k ish or more just a forewarning lol

Newt stared across the table at the blank, serious faces that looked back at him, feeling wrung out, exhausted. It had taken about an hour to recount everything in detail. Newt’s throat hurt with how long he’d been talking, and his chest was beginning to ache at the unreadable stares he was met with. On Dawlish’s face, Newt saw minute creases of somber concern, a pensive turn to his mouth and his brows drawn together, but that told him very little. Dawlish often looked thoughtful or concerned. He had said, in the past, it was usually on Newt’s behalf, because Newt clearly never thought things through himself. The other man that faced him across the table was a blank slate, completely unreadable. His dark eyes watched Newt impassively, frown lines stark as his mouth pulled naturally downward at the corners. He was from the Ministry as well, but Newt had never met him, and hadn’t really been paying attention during the very brief, stilted introduction. Newt had noticed, however, the way his mouth went pinched, just barely, as Newt explained what had happened.

They were silent, now, across the gleaming, metallic table that seemed to span an ocean of distance. Newt wasn't often opposed to silence. He liked it; he liked its solitude, the freedom to just be. But here—where he expected outrage, action, _reaction_ —the silence burrowed under his skin and itched, made him fidget in his seat like mad. “Well?” he finally blurted.

Silence. Then, the man next to Dawlish shifted, leaning back farther in his seat and crossing his arms. He tilted his head, and asked flatly, “is that all?”

“Coleson.” The sharp reproach from Dawlish was immediate, accompanied by a look of censure to the man next to him.

It was as if the air shifted when their eyes found his again. Like it was heavier, thick, an unrelenting weight on his shoulders and chest.

* * *

_Newt studied Percival’s dark expression worriedly. He hadn’t said anything for a long time after Newt had finished. Newt lowered his eyes to his hand in his lap, intertwined with Percival’s, his thumb rubbing mindless little circles. Percival was a warm weight at his side, steady, his arm wrapped around Newt’s waist, but it didn't help the way Newt suddenly felt cold. “You believe me, don’t you?”_

_Percival glanced at him sharply. “Of course I do.”_

_Newt breathed out slowly. “But you don't think it's believable,” he amended._

_Percival sighed. His head tilted back to rest against the wall and his eyes closed for a moment. The flickering firelight illuminated the dark circles under his eyes, the arcing line of his throat, the frustrated pinch to his mouth. “It doesn’t make sense.”_

* * *

“—would be so kind,” Newt registered Dawlish saying to someone beyond the glass, “bring Auror Goldstein in.”

Newt looked up at him sharply. “Auror...? Tina?” Newt frowned in confusion. It wasn’t as if he didn’t _want_ to see Tina, though Merlin knew he’d get an earful for running out of the infirmary without a word. But he had no idea why Dawlish wanted to speak with her. It made Newt nervous, to be completely unaware of what was running through the minds of the men in front of him.

“Newt,” Dawlish began, hands clasping in front of him and resting on the table, “you mentioned a wall of warding, around the perimeter of the warehouse, that prevented apparition. Correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct.” Newt craned his neck to try to look at whatever Coleson jotted down at Newt’s confirmation. Dawlish sent him a brief reproaching look, but Newt held his gaze intently. “So you believe me then?”

Before Dawlish could reply, the door to the interrogation room opened to reveal a pale faced Tina, her expression serious, but the lines of her face wan and tired. Newt felt a pang of guilt at not seeing her sooner—he thought he would have had time after seeing Percival, but everything had happened so fast.

“Sir, you asked for me?” she addressed Dawlish, but her eyes briefly skirted over Newt, flashing slightly wider as if to ask a million questions Newt wished he could just blurt out the answers to.

“Yes, Auror Goldstein. This warehouse on Fifth Avenue, I’m told it was the site of a busted smuggling operation, one that was stormed a day before this incident?”

Tina blinked, her brow furrowing. She glanced from Dawlish to Newt, then back again. “Yes, it was. We were expanding the controlled perimeter around the park and discovered the true use of the building.”

“You were one of the aurors assigned to the scene?”

“Yes,” Tina confirmed again.

“Then you will no doubt be able to answer the question that’s been plaguing us,” Coleson butt in, leaning forward. “If that case is now closed, why did the warding remain around the building?”

“That warding was volatile,” she replied immediately. “Any attempts to bring it down could have resulted in destruction of the building, or injured the person casting the spell. We were waiting on an expert from Philadelphia to take a look at it.”

Coleson frowned. “So Director Graves decided to leave dangerous warding up in a highly populated area—”

“It wasn’t dangerous on its own,” Tina countered, her teeth clenched. “It would only become dangerous if _improperly interfered with._ Precisely what Director Graves was trying to avoid. Besides, it was in a section of cleared buildings. Only aurors had access.”

“And magizoologists, it seems,” Dawlish pointed out.

The line of Tina’s jaw tightened, and she didn’t reply.

Newt blurted, “I'm sorry, isn't this besides the point—”

“Actually, Scamander, the extent of Graves’ negligence is precisely the point,” Coleson said with finality, raising a hand.

“ _Negligence?_ ” The word exploded from Newt’s mouth, echoed by Tina, disbelief clear in her voice. Newt glanced to Dawlish only to see him looking back steadily.

“Look, it was a noble experiment,” Coleson said, not unkindly, which ironically only made Newt more angry. “But I think it's proven itself a failure.”

“Experiment, sir?” Tina asked before Newt had the chance, her voice barbed underneath the air of polite inquiry.

“You know,” Coleson said, waving a hand carelessly, glancing between all the room. “A werewolf in this kind of position. Clearly the monthly toll is too much.”

Newt stared at him in disgust, grinding his teeth. “What’s clear is that you haven't absorbed a single word I’ve said.”

“Scamander—”

“No,” Newt interrupted, his voice hard. “You doubt my testimony is true? That I really _saw what I saw,_ well, bring in a legilimens then, so we can stop wasting our time.”

“Yes, let’s,” Dawlish interjected tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If you have no objection, Newt—”

“I don't,” Newt replied rigidly.

Dawlish stared at him for a moment longer, then sighed and turned to Tina. “Auror Goldstein, if you would...”

“Right away, sir.” Tina shot Newt another quick look and then was gone, disappeared through the door.

“Tell me,” Newt grit out, drawing Coleson’s gaze again, “is it your prejudice against werewolves that makes you so adamantly refuse my story?”

“I have nothing against werewolves, Mr. Scamander,” came the swift, self-assured reply. “Rather, I find it difficult to believe this plot you're weaving, firstly, because there were no signs of the struggle you've described. Secondly, after speaking to Director Graves it's clear he’s never met Hagen before. Only had him followed, in fact, because he seemed to _frequent the park._ If Hagen had no prior connection with Graves, and had no prior connection with you, why would he risk doing what you’ve claimed he’s done? For no reason I can think of, apart from a test of this potion you've described, of which we only have your word even exists. I’d like to take your word on this, Scamander, but it simply doesn’t add up.”

* * *

 _“It_ does, _” Newt said adamantly. “This just proves your suspicions were right, someone is trying to put werewolves in a bad light, to swing the vote—”_

 _“_ Someone _," Percival scoffed. His head thumped back against the wall. “We don't even have a person we can pin it on.”_

_“Don't we, though?” Newt asked deliberately._

_Percival tilted his head to look at him, eyes dark. “I didn’t say he didn’t do it,” he said lowly, dangerously. “I just can’t prove it.” He exhaled roughly through his nose, letting out a growl. “I can’t possibly build a case against him when I don’t even understand it. It makes no fucking sense.”_

_“But—”_

_“Why?” Percival blurted, running a hand through his hair. He pushed himself up from the floor and began to pace restlessly. “Why would he do it? Because he wanted to keep his stolen wages? All this, just for money? Weiss is a cold bastard, and I'm not saying he wouldn't stoop to it, but he could have whatever amount he lost to a lawsuit made up in a week. Doing all this for money would be an incredibly unnecessary risk. He’s not the kind of man to do something so dangerous if he didn’t have more to lose.”_

_Newt bit his lip, running through what he knew in his mind. “If Weiss solely wanted to affect public opinion of werewolves, he could have continued with his hidebehind ploy.”_

_“Only it was already discovered as just that—a ploy. If he wanted to continue to discredit_ werewolves, _he would’ve had to pull something else.” Percival stopped his pacing. Newt saw his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, saw the firelight flicker with an agitated burst of magic. “Which he did,” Percival muttered darkly, the words clipped, sharp._

_Newt slowly rose and put a hand on Percival’s shoulder, drawing his gaze. “The ‘why’ won’t matter until we have a way to even connect Weiss to it all,” Newt said, his mind racing, thinking of everything he’d seen the night before. Of Hagen, and the way he was strangely censored through some kind of magic. Even he couldn’t tell them why, though Newt thought he knew just what had prevented him from speaking._

_Newt met Percival's quietly considering gaze as his thoughts slotted into place. “There’s always one thing I’ve found to be a constant in black market dealings. Ironically, it’s also the one thing I’m sure aurors find useful in breaking cases. When sellers can’t trust clients on their word to fulfill payment and clients can’t trust the merchandise, they need something that assures both sides will honor an agreement, that they won’t be double crossed.”_

_“A magical contract,” Percival said, eyes bright and impressed in a way that had Newt feeling warm._

_“Exactly.”_

_“The physical kind that can’t be broken, or skirted, or—”_

_“Destroyed,” Newt finished triumphantly, a self-satisfied smile growing on his face. “That’s how Weiss had everything go as he wished without being directly involved. That’s how he controlled a man like Hagen, and that’s how we get him. He’ll have that contract in his possession, he’ll have to, he couldn’t trust it being anywhere but in his care.” He met Percival’s gaze, grinning, only to narrow his eyes at the amused, indulgent expression on Percival’s face. It didn’t take long to realise why. Percival’s words to Hagen from the night before filtered through his mind._

A man like you wouldn’t leave a paper trail _, he’d said._ Or would you?

_“You already knew?!” Newt exclaimed, huffing at Percival’s irritatingly amused, poorly concealed smile._

_“I_ suspected, _” Percival corrected, though his smile didn’t drop, if anything it grew, and Newt couldn’t even be annoyed with him anymore because that full smile with teeth and dimples and soft brown eyes always reduced his train of thought to mush. “The fact that mentioning the possibility got a rise out of him, well.” Percival grinned wider and shrugged. “That was just lucky.”_

_“Oh, alright, you’re clever. Stop your manic grinning already,” Newt grumbled, poking Percival in the chest._

_Percival’s smile did drop then, in fact, his face twisted into a brief wince that disappeared in an instant. Newt stared at him. “Are you alright?” he asked worriedly._

_“Fine,” Percival answered easily—_ too _easily._

_Newt narrowed his eyes and poked him in the ribs again._

_“Ow!”_

_“Ha!” Newt exclaimed. “Now let me see.” Percival begrudgingly allowed Newt to lift up his shirt to get a look. Newt froze immediately at the sight of dark, mottled bruises, scattered all over Percival’s torso. “Oh,” he breathed. Newt brushed his hand lightly over a particularly dark mark. His heart sank to his stomach like a rock. “Oh, darling, you didn’t say anything.”_

_“It’s fine,” Percival murmured, and when Newt glanced back up at him he saw his eyes were dark, but somehow soft. “They’re not that bad.”_

_“How...?”_

_“Werewolves aren’t affected by most spells; they don’t tend to penetrate, but you can’t really avoid the impact,” Percival said simply._

_Newt swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat, because suddenly he was imagining what might’ve happened it those spells had been a little stronger, if they had truly landed. Everything felt all too real again, all too close. His vision became a little blurrier. “They should have healed these.”_

_Percival’s warm palm cupped Newt’s cheek, his thumb brushing over his cheekbone. He drew Newt’s gaze up with a gentle pressure under his jaw. “There were more important things,” Percival pointed out softly._

_Newt swallowed and shook his head, his hand coming up to cover Percival’s. “Not to me.”_

_Percival’s expression softened further, the curve of his mouth returning to a more reserved, small smile, and Newt chased it with a light, skirting kiss. “Come on, love,” Newt murmured without hesitation, pulling back slightly. Still close enough that their noses nearly brushed. “I have something in my case that might help.”_

* * *

Newt fought the urge to duck his head and avert his gaze from the flatly assessing stare that met him. He told himself everything would be fine once he had a legilimens’ confirmation. But it felt like a slap, everything laid out so plainly, skepticism dripping from every word. Newt swallowed and lifted his head higher. “For as long as I’ve known Director Graves, I’ve seen him to be nothing but competent and devoutly loyal to his staff and the requirements of his position. Forgetting to take Wolfsbane, or...” Newt swallowed, this throat clicking. “Or purposefully doing so; the Percival Graves I know _—_ the Percival Graves every person in his department could vouch for _—_ would never do something like that. I realize it doesn’t...I know it seems unlikely, but I’ve told you everything as it happened. Truly.”

“I assure you, Newt, this investigation will consider all possibilities,” Dawlish said placatingly. “As soon as we have confirmation of your testimony, we can pursue the guilty party further.”

Coleson’s eyes were steady when he said, “we understand where you’re coming from, Scamander. You’ve worked with this man, you know him well. I’m sure seeing him go through something like this is hard for you.”

Newt blinked at him, caught off guard. “It...it is,” he answered tentatively.

The sympathetic words were at odds with the complete lack of expression on the man’s face. “It's evident that you and he were close. You’d no doubt want to help him in whatever way you could,” he continued, head tilted, eyes watching Newt’s face as closely as Newt was studying his.

“Of course I would,” Newt responded automatically, glancing at Dawlish, who was also studying him intently, though there was a pensive frown on his face. Newt felt a prickle of unease ghost over his skin, but before he could analyze the feeling the door opened again.

He turned to it and felt relief sweep over him like a wave. Queenie. He had hoped she would be the one sent. She met Newt’s eyes and he saw the sentiment mirrored in her face, the way the tenseness in her shoulders lifted and she smiled wobbly.

“Ah, Miss Goldstein,” Dawlish greeted, a strange note of relief in his voice as well. “Thank you for obliging us.” She nodded at him politely, then at Coleson, slightly more stiltedly. Newt briefly wondered if Tina had briefed her and felt a spike of amusement at the thought. But, mostly, he felt that overwhelming relief pool in his stomach. Finally, _finally_ things would be alright. “If you’d please confirm Mr. Scamander’s testimony for us, particularly the role of an Erik Hagen in the events of yesterday.”

Queenie nodded again and sat in the remaining chair, using her magic to angle it to face Newt. She gently took Newt’s hands in her own from where he’d had them clasped in a death grip in his lap. She ran her thumbs soothingly over the backs of his hands, the motion reminding him of Percival. Newt took a steadying breath, slowly feeling calmer. “That’s it, honey,” Queenie murmured, her familiar smile helping to ground him. _Are you alright?_ she asked him, her voice drifting in his head like a cloud. Newt realized she had angled her chair away from the two men so they couldn’t quite see her expression—worried, and yet warm. It was the closest to a private conversation they could get.

 _Fine._ He managed the smallest smile, a barely there quirk of lips. _I’ll be better once this is all over with._

“I just need you to relax, and think on what happened yesterday,” she said, for the benefit of the rest of the room. To him, she said, _you and me both, honey._ She lightly bumped his hands together, smiling, and projecting a surge of calm and affection that he was so, so grateful for. It felt like he could finally breathe. _It’s alright, Newt. Just show me, and it’ll be alright._

Newt nodded and closed his eyes, letting the rush of memories just sweep over him. He thought of the note that brought them to the warehouse, of Percival in chains, of Hagen’s blunt, unwavering gaze and the sharp twist to his smile. Queenie’s grip tightened on his hands. Newt exhaled roughly. _Finally._

 _Um..._ came Queenie’s voice again, this time tense, troubled. _Sweetie, I need you to think harder, okay?_

Newt opened his eyes, his stomach sinking in a growing feeling of trepidation. Her face was screwed up in concentration, her mouth turned downwards into a frown. “Really try to picture it, Newt,” she whispered. “Like it’s a painting.”

Newt felt his breath catch in his throat, his heartbeat pounding faster in his chest. “I am.”

“I...” Queenie blinked, meeting Newt’s eyes, and stared at him, wide-eyed. “Newt...”

“Miss Goldstein?” Coleson prompted, but Newt could hardly hear from the sudden roaring in his ears. It felt as though the floor had opened up from under him. “Miss Goldstein, what is it that you see?”

“Newt, try _harder_ ,” Queenie whispered, almost pleadingly, and how could she not see it was the _only_ thing running through Newt’s mind, that that night was practically playing on a loop, that he could still hear every word.

Every word.

 _Another precaution,_ Hagen had said. Before turning his wand on Newt.

“Miss Goldstein, I remind you that under these circumstances you are _under oath_ —”

“There’s nothing,” Queenie breathed. Newt’s stomach plummeted. She shook her head, her eyes wide and stricken and confused. “Newt—”

“In your opinion, is this congruous with someone trying to pass off fiction as memory?”

Queenie turned her worried gaze from Newt to the two other men in the room. “I...I don’t...”

“I want a pensieve,” Newt breathed.

He heard a distant sigh. “If there’s no memory to draw from, then nothing will—”

“I am _not,”_ Newt hissed, whipping his head up to glare and cursing the way his voice trembled, “making this up. I want a pensieve.”

“Newt,” Queenie whispered, her hand squeezing his, but it was a far cry from comfort. Her voice was tentative, hushed, as if she were speaking to a wild animal. Her gaze kept shifting, darting nervously between him and the two investigators. Her eyes settled on him, worried and wide and sorrowful. “There’s...” She swallowed. “There’s nothing I could put into it. Nothing of that night.”

Newt stared at her, feeling as though he’d been doused in icy water, his chest tight with encroaching panic. That had been _all he’d had._

As his thoughts spiraled, he heard the vestiges of hushed conversation. Queenie’s reactionary grip tightening to the point of pain helped to filter some of it through. He caught the tail end, caught Dawlish rationalizing “...head injury...” after Coleson’s murmured “...tantamount to perjury...” and felt dizzy.

 _Newt..._ Queenie warned.

“Newt,” Dawlish spoke clearly, piercing through the fog. Newt managed to meet his kind, worried gaze. “I think...I think perhaps it might be best if you—”

“What—what about O’Brien?” he gasped out. His thoughts felt fuzzy. He grasping at straws, desperate to make them _see._ “Haven’t you w-wondered why he hasn’t been in, why he’s disappeared? He—he was following Hagen and was discovered—Hagen _killed_ him and used O’Brien’s notepad to draw us to the warehouse—”

“Newt, the note was written in O’Brien’s own hand,” Dawlish interrupted gently.

Newt blinked at him, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. He shook his head, fighting to clear his frantic thoughts. “So Hagen forced him to write it, and then killed—”

“Hagen didn’t kill O’Brien,” Coleson said flatly, with finality, his mouth a thin line. “O’Brien was killed by a well-hidden, magical tripwire just outside of the warehouse. No doubt left by the smugglers who occupied it. Another thing, it seems, that Director Graves missed.”

For a horrible, suffocating moment, Newt questioned everything he knew. It passed like a wave, but he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking, couldn’t seem to draw in enough breath to steady himself, leaving him feeling lightheaded.

 _Newt..._ Queenie’s voice, audibly agitated. _Maybe you should..._

“Do you know what that means, Mr. Scamander?” Coleson was saying. “If O’Brien’s family chooses to press charges, Graves could be charged with involuntary manslaughter.”

“ _What?”_ Newt gasped out, his heart stuttering in his chest. “It wasn't his _fault—_ ”

“If you truly want to help Graves, you’ll tell us the truth.”

“I _am_ telling the truth!” Newt shouted. The two men stared at him warily in the subsequent silence.

_Newt, honey, you need to calm down—_

Newt pressed against his eyes with his palms, hard enough that he saw sparks. “ _No_ , I need you to _listen_ to me. Doesn’t it—doesn’t it strike you as—” _Convenient_. “ _Odd,_ ” he choked out, his tongue stumbling on the word, “that the only people that could tell you what exactly happened can’t seem to tell you?”

He watched the two men’s faces desperately, practically praying. It surprised him that Coleson was the one who looked briefly, fleetingly considering, his pen tapping on his notepad, but the expression vanished when Dawlish murmured worryingly, “odd? Newt...Graves has been confirmed by medics as suffering from potion withdrawal. You’ve sustained a _serious_ head wound that we were warned might cause further repercussions. I...” A guilty look creased his face. “Perhaps I should have given more thought to your adamance about seeing him, it’s no wonder—”

“Wait, you _met_ with Graves?” Coleson asked, his expression growing dark and thunderous. “Did...did you come up with that story together—”

“No!” Newt blurted, horrified. “We didn’t—it’s not—”

“Newt, how long have you been protecting him?” Coleson asked. Newt gaped at him, the denial stuck in his throat, and he saw a growing idea behind Coleson’s eyes that made his stomach plummet. “Was...” the man began slowly, “were the hidebehind incidents actually—”

Newt stood up abruptly, the sound of the chair scraping the floor behind him echoing in the suddenly silent room. “No,” he whispered shakily. “No, they were not.” But the idea was still there, behind the man’s eyes. Newt could see it, and couldn’t think of a way to convince him otherwise. Everything had spiraled away from him so quickly. He couldn’t breathe.

He had been the only one that had _seen_ the hidebehind, after all.

Queenie shot up out of her chair, placing a steadying hand on his arm. _Newt?_

_I can’t breathe. I need to _—to_ _get out_. Getout can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t— _

“I’m taking Mr. Scamander to get some air,” Queenie said, her tone hard. There was a beginning of protest Newt barely registered that was quickly cut off when Queenie continued, “if this is the way the Ministry operates—questioning a witness who’s been through recent trauma like they would a criminal—well. Then I have a few choice words for your chief of staff. I believe we’re done here.”

Newt ducked his head and practically bolted from the room, though he could feel Queenie close behind, could feel a tentative hand ghosting over his shoulder. He entered the hallway, breathing hard, and his hands were shaking and his vision was blurring and he had just—Merlin, what had he _just done_ —

“Oh, honey,” Queenie murmured sorrowfully, her hand rubbing small circles into his back. “Stop that. None of this is your fault.”

Newt clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle a sob. “It is,” he whispered, wide-eyed. He blinked and tears spilled over his cheeks, his breath coming short. “Merlin, I just...I-I made it _worse._ Now they think th-that I made it up, that I made it up to save him—” Newt cut off, feeling as though he’d just been punched in the stomach. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, his fist bunching in his collar of his coat. “I was supposed to save him,” he croaked.

Queenie’s expression crumpled and she shot forward, arms wrapping around him, squeezing him tightly. After a blink of surprise, he shakily returned the embrace, burying his face in the fur lining of her coat. His fingers trembled against the lining. “We’ll figure something out, Newt,” she murmured. Her grip tightened. “I promise.” _It’ll be alright, honey. Everything will be alright. It’ll be alright._

Her mantra continued its soothing curl around his frantic thoughts, like a mental embrace, but it only brought more shaky sobs to his throat.

That was what he’d said to Percival.

* * *

  _“Newt, I’ve counted about 16 things in your storeroom alone that are highly illegal.”_

_Newt snorted a laugh and glanced back at Percival, his smile softening and warmth blossoming in his chest when he saw Percival’s wide eyed, wondering expression as they entered the first enclosure and he had a chance to look around. Frank was truly a sight to behold as he skirted looping figure eights in the air. Newt watched Percival’s eyes tracking him, his mouth agape. “You going to arrest me?” Newt quipped, tilting his head and swinging their clasped hands._

_A laugh punched its way out of Percival’s chest, a smile ghosting over his face. His eyes were warm and fond when they dropped back to Newt and saw his expression. “You’re getting a little cocky, there. Maybe I should.”_

_“Too bad Picquery’s already given me immunity,” Newt singsonged._

_Percival tugged Newt closer, his arm winding around to the small of Newt’s back and pressing him to his chest. He smirked. “That doesn’t mean I can’t get you into handcuffs, Newt,” Percival murmured, his voice low._

_Newt’s mouth went dry and his eyes dropped to Percival’s mouth as he very happily entertained the thought. “Oh, you’re very distracting,” Newt scolded lightly, giving in when Percival brushed his lips against his. “I’ll have to take you up on that,” he murmured. “But I don’t...” He swallowed, pressing his forehead against Percival’s. “I don’t really think we have time for that.”_

_“No,” Percival agreed softly, ruefully. Newt hated seeing his smile fall. “Probably not.” He glanced away, his eyes roaming. “I always wondered how you could spend so much time in a_ suitcase _, but...it’s easy to forget in here. It feels like this is all there is."_

_Newt stared at him, his heart feeling heavy in his chest. Sometimes he so wished that were true. He squeezed Percival’s hand. “I know what you mean,” Newt said quietly. Percival’s eyes found his again, dark and somber. Newt took a breath. “Come on, love. It’s not far.”_

_Newt introduced Percival to the occamys on the way. Some of the animals would take more time—they’d be able to smell the wolf on him, but occamys weren’t so easily intimidated. Newt felt that warmth ballooning in his chest when Percival made a point to crouch down to eye level, greeting each one by name as Newt introduced them. They took to him rather quickly after that, one of them—Humbert—even winding around Percival’s wrist and burrowing into his sleeve. Percival stared at the creature wide-eyed, holding his arm very still, then glanced up to Newt, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “They don’t really like to be pet, right?”_

_Newt grinned and bit his lip. “Not usually,” he said. “But don’t think Humbert would at all mind.”_

_Percival tentatively ran his fingers underneath Humbert’s beak, grinning up at Newt when it resulted in a pleased squawk and a ruffling of feathers, and Newt smiled back and swallowed down a sudden surge of affection that made his throat feel thick._

_“How did you know to do that?” Newt asked him, when he gently drew Humbert from Percival’s arm and placed him back in the nest. At Percival’s questioning glance, he clarified, “to...speak to them individually. To hold eye contact.”_

_Percival shrugged. “That’s what you wrote isn’t it? That occamys, like hippogriffs, seem to value respect, and that some schools of thought even believe they can understand speech.”_

_Newt blinked at him. “You remember all that?”_

_“Of course I do,” Percival said simply._

_Newt smiled and ducked his head, scuffing his foot in the grass. “I always thought most of the specifics would get muddled,” he murmured. “I couldn't help but jump from subject to subject, you know, and th-the bit about bowtruckles was much too long, probably—”_

_“Newt,” Percival interrupted, his voice fond. “It was great.”_

_Newt grinned. “Was it?”_

_Percival wrapped an arm around him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “It was.”_

_Newt beamed at him and burrowed closer. Despite everything that had happened, everything that he knew was coming, he couldn’t help but feel immensely...happy, in that moment. He’d put off showing Percival the case for a while now, attaching several excuses to it: the erumpent was feeling antsy, the nundu was acting up, the niffler kept stealing the doorknob. Really, he was worried that Percival might not take it well. Though Picquery had allowed him his case and his creatures, the situation revolving the Statute was still tenuous. It had been different with Jacob _—_ he’d merely seen something wondrous. But Tina had initially only seen potential dangers and ramifications, and he’d feared the same might be true of Percival. He _ was _the Director of Magical Security after all._

_Newt had never been more content with being proven wrong. “You’re good with them,” Newt murmured after a moment, watching the occamys._

_“Am I? Well, I’m glad. Animals don’t usually like me.”_

_“Take one whiff of you and bolt, do they?” Newt quipped._

_Percival huffed a laugh. “Something like that.” Newt glanced up at him curiously when he said nothing more. His gaze was distant as he stared at nothing in particular. “I had a dog, you know,” he said softly. “Before I...before I was turned.”_

_Newt stared at him, a question bubbling up in his throat. He swallowed before asking, tentatively, gently, “when...?”_

_The words punched out of him like a sigh, like an exhale. “I was fifteen.”_

_Newt let out a shaky breath. He’d been so_ young. _He couldn't even imagine it_. _He could see Percival’s expression grow more troubled, a crease appearing between his brows and the line of his mouth drawing tight, and ached to smooth it all away. So he cupped Percival’s cheek, drawing his gaze, and said softly, “well, the occamys have already taken to you. And it’s only a matter of time before every creature I have here is just as in love with you as they are and nearly as much as I am.”_

_Percival smiled slowly, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and Newt knew he’d said the right thing. Percival leaned in and kissed him, a gentle brush of lips, his fingers ghosting across Newt’s cheek and palm cupping his jaw. “I suppose I’ll take your word for it,” he said._

_“Good,” Newt murmured, his hand splaying over Percival’s chest. “Now, let’s have a look at those bruises.” He guided Percival around the occamy nest to the makeshift bed he had set up at the center of his case. It was the best vantage point to hear if anything went wrong—if a fight broke out, or if one of them somehow became injured during the night. Or during the day. Sometimes on his travels Newt was decidedly nocturnal. Percival sighed when Newt gestured for him to sit down, though he did so quickly after he saw Newt’s scolding glance. “Thought I’d forgotten?” Newt asked, murmuring a quick_ accio _for ingredients from his storehouse. Percival grumbled something that sounded like an affirmative, and Newt bit down on a smile. With a wave of his hand, they mixed themselves together in the air, a mortar and pestle grinding on. He tugged at the collar of Percival’s shirt. “Off.”_

_Percival obliged, though it took another firm glance. “You don’t have to do this, you know. I heal fast.”_

_Newt could see from the bruising that he was right—it already looked a tad better than when he’d last seen them. Still, the splotches were visible all over his torso, as if he’d been hit hard with multiple fists. Just looking at them made Newt’s own chest feel tight. He remembered a collar, tight enough to bruise, and stared at the now unblemished line of Percival’s throat. It looked as if it’d never existed. “Yes, I know,” he said softly. The slight tremble in his voice had a little crease appearing between Percival’s brows, had the look in his eyes turning gentle and concerned. Newt swallowed and plucked the mortar out of the air, settling next to him. His fingers tapped on the stone absently. “It’d just...it would just make me feel better.”_

_Percival placed a hand on his arm, his thumb brushing over Newt’s wrist. Newt slowly turned his hand over and Percival threaded their fingers together. Newt stared at their clasped hands, his throat thick. “Hey,” Percival murmured. Newt looked up at him. There was a gentle, soft look in his eyes. “Have at it, darling.” He quirked a small smile. “Even though that stuff smells God awful.”_

_Newt huffed a laugh. “It’s not_ that _bad,” he scolded fondly. Percival raised his eyebrows. “Okay, maybe it’s a little pungent,” Newt admitted. “But it’ll help. I promise.”_

_Percival nodded, and waited, the look on his face expectant. Newt scooped some of the paste and rubbed it between his hands. He paused about an inch from Percival’s stomach, hovering over a large bruise just above his hip. Percival’s skin was radiating heat. “This might feel cold,” Newt murmured, looking up at him. Percival nodded again, his eyes dark. Gently, Newt brushed his hand against Percival’s skin. At the initial touch, Percival twitched slightly, but otherwise remained still. Newt was keenly aware of Percival’s eyes on his face, of every small point of contact. Percival’s leg resting against his, Newt’s hand on his shoulder, smooth skin burning under the pads of his fingers._

_The bruises slowly vanished under Newt’s ministrations. Newt worked his way up Percival’s torso, taking care not to miss anything. His fingers caressed the final spot just under Percival’s collar bone, and he felt Percival shiver at the touch. “Sorry,” he murmured breathlessly, drawing his hand away, glancing up at Percival. They were so close Newt nearly brushed noses with him. His eyes were dark. Newt could just barely distinguish his pupils, blown wide. “Was that _—"_ _

_Percival closed the distance between them, his lips pressing against Newt’s, kissing him languidly, unhurried. Newt hummed and pressed closer, the heat of Percival’s skin bleeding through his clothes. Newt’s fingers ran through his hair and that contented rumbling sounded from Percival’s chest. Newt smiled against his mouth, forgetting everything but that warmth that came off in waves, the gentle affection in Percival’s face evident in the seconds they broke apart to breathe._

_They drifted to lay side by side, facing each other on the bed, close enough that if one of them chose they could kiss without having to stretch. Percival’s hand was a grounding weight on Newt’s hip, his thumb brushing over the inch of skin that rode up under his shirt. Newt had his hand splayed over Percival’s chest. The steady beat of his heart pulsed against his palm, the skin under his hand hot like a furnace._

_“You’re running warm,” Newt murmured._

_“They did say I might,” Percival replied evenly. “Potion withdrawal,” he added, at Newt’s questioning look._

_Newt swallowed, his throat feeling thick again. He dropped Percival’s gaze. “Right.”_

_He could feel Percival watching him, considering, but kept his eyes on his hand. “Are you alright?” Percival asked softly._

_“Am_ I _alright?” Newt repeated incredulously. His eyes found Percival’s again, but he could only meet the steady gaze for a moment before his eyes flickered away. Percival’s fingers gently brushed his cheek._

_“I think it’s a valid question,” Percival said simply. His fingers ghosted over the side of Newt’s face, and ran into his hair._

_Newt caught his hand in his own, gently pulling it away, threading their fingers together. “That wasn’t your fault,” he said firmly._

_Percival’s eyes stared at that spot for a moment, before settling on Newt’s. His throat bobbed up and down. “Yeah,” he rasped. “So you keep telling me.”_

_Newt squeezed Percival's hand, exhaling shakily. It felt hard to swallow, a sudden stinging behind his eyes making him blink rapidly._

_"Newt?" Percival prompted gently._

_"I'm so sorry," Newt whispered._

_Percival's brows furrowed and he shook his head slightly, confusion plain on his face. "What on earth for?"_

_"I just..." Newt sighed. "I'm just sorry that this is happening to you."_

_Percival stared at him. "Newt," he said slowly, "you have this tendency to put the weight of the world on your shoulders when you don't have to."_

_"I don't think it's a bad thing," Newt answered immediately. "To care."_

_Percival reached out a hand, gently brushing Newt's hair out of his face, his thumb settling just above Newt's jaw. Newt's heart swelled at the gentle touch and he placed his hand over Percival's, watching the way his eyes softened. "It's not. I think it's the most wonderful thing about you," Percival murmured. "You care so much, with every breath. Sometimes I wonder how you can possibly stand it."_

_Newt smiled at him wobbly. He closed the small distance between them, kissing him gently, slow and sweet. "Because," he said softly, pressing their foreheads together, "some things are so worth caring about."_

_Percival's throat worked, some intense emotion in his eyes, but instead of saying anything he kissed Newt again, his palm moving to splay under Newt's shirt and against his spine, pressing closer. It felt bittersweet._

_There was a sudden knock, harsh and booming against his case an indeterminable amount of time later. However much time it was, it felt too soon. Newt jerked and sat upright at the sound, his heart pounding. "Scamander, time's up," came Abernathy's voice, firm, insistent. "They want you at MACUSA, and I ain't giving them the chance to find you here."_

_Newt's heart plummeted. When he glanced at Percival he saw him looking back steadily, already up. He held out a hand. "Come on."_ _Newt took it, sliding out of the bed. He felt as though a heavy weight were pressing on his chest. Percival smiled weakly. "Best take the case, too," he said. "Stash it at the Goldsteins'. Wouldn't want them to find it here."_

_Because no one was supposed to be here. Because Percival wasn't allowed to see anyone. Newt felt his throat close up, tears pricking the backs of his eyes. "I'm going to make this right," he said shakily, his hands cradling Percival's cheeks. "I promise."_

_The way Percival was looking at him, somberly, wistfully, like Newt was already gone, made him want to cry all the more._

_"Scamander!"_

_"I promise," Newt repeated fervently. He needed Percival to believe him. "I promise everything will be alright."_

_After a moment, Percival nodded. "Okay, Newt." His thumb brushed the back of Newt's hand. "Okay."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never fear, dear reader, things can only go up from here.  
> ..mostly ;)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a while, and I have no excuse for myself rip

All in all, Newt brooded for about two days.

It wasn’t really in his nature, to brood on things. He hated overthinking, hated being stuck in his muddled thoughts, sitting still, _waiting_ , Merlin, he _loathed_ it. But he couldn’t stop his thoughts from spiraling or cast them to other things because this was _Percival,_ and he couldn’t quiet the voice in his head that said, consistently, that this was his fault.

Maybe if he’d been quicker, if he hadn’t been caught off guard by Hagen…

Maybe if he’d tried harder to get through to Percival after he’d turned…

Maybe.

Well, one thing he knew for certain. If he hadn’t been there, none of this would have happened. Percival could have easily faced Hagen if Newt hadn’t been in the way.

The thought circulated in his head like a buzzing fly, no matter how often he fought to cast it away.

Newt had already spent hours mucking out habitats in his case, feeding his creatures, and scribbling away at unfinished manuscripts like a madman. None of it helped.

Now, he paced wall to wall in the room the Goldstein’s had kindly let him stay in. Now, he had nothing but that maddening thought to keep him occupied.

A short, but clear knock sounded at the door, followed by a silence. If it were Tina, she would have knocked once, then barged in—it was _her_ apartment, she would have said, the convincingly techy tone almost hiding the concern underneath. If it were Queenie, she would have brushed gently at his thoughts like wind at a cloud, and slipped through the doorway quietly. This person, however, waited politely, patiently, but another short knock emphasized that they were most certainly _staying_ , stolidly immovable.

Jacob, then.

Newt crossed the short distance and opened the door, managing a small, but genuine smile at the sight of him.

“Hey, buddy,” Jacob greeted him. His normal joviality was just the slightest bit muted—it had been for a few days. All of them were walking on eggshells around him. “Tea?” Jacob offered, and Newt’s gaze dropped to the steaming mug in his hands.

“Bit late for that, isn’t it?” Newt said in reply, though he took the mug gratefully all the same. The warmth of the ceramic made his freezing fingers tingle.

“Rooibos,” Jacob answered easily, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m not trying to get you wired for the third night in a row. We all sleep easier when you do, Newt, and not just because there’s an absence of the sound of you wearing a hole in the floor.”

“I sleep,” Newt muttered halfheartedly into the rim of his mug.

“Snatches at a time in your case don’t really count, Newt,” Jacob said, not unkindly.

Newt sighed. “I can’t just... _sit_ here.” The words punched out of him like an angry exhale. “His trial is in four days— _four_ days—and yet I can’t do anything _but_ sit here, because _no one,_ not even Tina, has clearance to see him.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth.

Jacob nodded, his expression sympathetic. “But that guy Abernathy’s been keeping you updated, though? Since he’s posted there?”

“He has,” Newt grumbled, “I suppose.” Jacob raised his eyebrows, a silent question, and Newt added frustratedly, “I just—from the few times I’ve managed to catch him at MACUSA he says Percival seems fine, that he looks better, has no doubt been sleeping more...”

“Well...” Jacob began tentatively, “that’s good, isn’t it?”

Newt’s throat worked, and he took a quick sip of tea. “It’s just that...well, that’s all information you can get from a cursory glance, Jacob,” Newt murmured. “I mean, considering the circumstances, considering the fact that essentially _no one_ is allowed in or...” the word caught in his throat for a moment, and Newt glanced away from the gentle look of sympathy from Jacob. “Or out...” he finished, quieter, “then...it’s just—how much can even Abernathy really know? I—I’m worried about him. About what might be going on in his head, because the last time we...” Newt swallowed, and looked down into his tea, watching the residue at the bottom drift. “He just still looked so _guilty._ ”

Jacob was silent for a beat, then said wryly, “Newt, if that’s really _all_ that this Abernathy guy has bothered to tell you, he needs a good clock to the head.”

Newt snorted, a smile smile quirking. “Well, he did also assure me that Percival’s been keeping busy.”

“That’s good!” Jacob said brightly. “Not sulking is good!”

Newt’s smile grew slightly wider at the confirmation, a huff of a laugh escaping him. Jacob’s optimism was often infectious. “I suppose you’re right. Percival’s never liked being idle, except in the early mornings.” Newt tilted his head, considering. “ _Especially_ the early mornings after—“

“ _Got it,_ ” Jacob said quickly, and a little too loudly. “Not a morning guy. So he’s doing stuff. That’s good, Newt. He’s probably just doing what he can to wait this out, exactly like we are.”

“I suppose,” Newt murmured again, quieter. But, Newt considered silently, Percival was never one to pass the time mindlessly. If he was reading, he would be reading up on criminal law, if Newt found him writing it would be for one of his case reports. And yet, Abernathy had mentioned, offhandedly—

“Portkeys,” Newt murmured.

“Uh. Bless you?”

Newt met Jacob’s perplexed expression. “Abernathy said he had been reading up on portkeys,” he said, working it over in his head. “A _lot.”_

“Okay...what’s a portkey?”

“It’s an object, that when enchanted, can take you to a specified place through touch. But...there were no portkeys involved with what happened, so why...?”

“Newt, buddy,” Jacob said after a moment, “I’m pretty sure you’re overthinking this.”

Newt blew out a slow breath, and leant back against the bed frame, fingers tapping at the mug in his hands, which was steadily losing heat. “You’re probably right. I think I’m losing my mind a little bit...this waiting, it’s...it’s like limbo, I suppose, like the calm before the storm. And that trial...that trial will be a storm,” Newt muttered, picking at the seams of the quilt at the end of the bed. It was one of Queenie’s brightly colored, almost garish furnishings, almost dizzying to look at. It hurt his overtaxed eyes.

Jacob was quiet for a beat, then said, tone wry, “I still don’t really know much about magical law enforcement. But hasn’t Graves been Director for a while?”

“Seven years,” Newt answered easily.

“And it’s obvious that some people haven’t been happy about it,” Jacob said slowly, “for seven years. I mean, don’t you think...maybe it’s not the first time he’s dealt with stuff like this.”

“Stuff like nearly being framed for murder?” Newt pointed out incredulously.

Jacob winced. “Okay, maybe not that bad,” he conceded, “but, I mean, he’s keeping busy, doing a lot of reading...maybe he actually has some kind of...plan for this.”

“I...” Newt paused, really thinking on it, swallowing around the dryness of his throat. “I hope so.”

Merlin, did he hope so. Because Newt seemed to be coming up short. He thought again of the promise that he made to Percival—that he would _fix it—_ and a cold feeling settled at the pit of his stomach.

The sound of Jacob getting to his feet drew Newt’s eyes up. “Alright, enough sulking in here. Come on,” the other man said, walking toward the door, clearly expecting Newt to follow. “I have something that might make you feel better.”

* * *

For the next few hours, Newt helped Jacob to knead bread for the early rush in the bakery. It took him a few minutes to get the hang of it—mostly to learn to keep the sticky dough restrained to the kitchen counter and not every other available surface, including himself—but he did find it oddly soothing after a while. It kept his muscles working, his residual frustration being pounded into the dough. It kept his mind comfortably blank.

It was the same comfort of working hard in his case, but it was admittedly...a nice change of pace to have the easy company of someone else, especially given that Jacob didn’t mind spending time in relative silence.

Queenie came in after a while, no doubt to start on dinner, but allowed them a bit more time. She didn’t say anything upon approach, but Newt felt a warm happiness brush around the edges of his mind, and when he turned to glance over she was wearing a smile, watching them with eyes gleaming.

“We’re just about finishing up, doll,” Jacob told her, also turning to look, and when Newt caught his expression it was clearly softer, his smile unique to when Queenie was in the room.

His heart suddenly felt a little heavier in his chest.

“Oh, don’t rush on my account,” she chirped, coming closer and peering over Jacob’s shoulder. “All this for the bakery, or can you spare some for dinner?”

“What are we having?”

“Orecchiette with rosemary,” Queenie grinned, eyes darting to Newt. “You really liked that last time, right Newt?”

Newt huffed and smiled at her. “That’s right.”

“That,” Jacob said definitively, “would go excellently with the focaccia.”

Newt finished up with the last bit of dough as Jacob readied the bread for the oven, still feeling better than he had all day, in the easy warmth of the kitchen. Queenie came up beside him, the pink fur of her coat brushing Newt’s arm. “Thanks for helping Jacob, hun, he usually spends a lot longer on it by himself,” she whispered, eyes bright. “He’s a bit of a perfectionist—“

“And just what is wrong with perfection?” Jacob asked from across the kitchen.

Newt tried to muffle his laugh as Queenie assured, “nothing at all, baby.”

“It was my pleasure,” Newt murmured to her, when she returned her gaze to him. “Really. It...it helped.”

Queenie’s expression softened. “I’m glad.” She took a breath, then opened her mouth slightly as if she were about to say something else, but closed it, her eyes meeting his and then darting away.

Newt stared at her. “What?”

She met his eyes tentatively, biting her lip. “I know you don’t...I’m not...pressuring you, honey,” she seemed to make sure to emphasize, “but...your brother Floo called again.”

Newt swallowed, that anxious gnawing in his stomach returning. “Oh.”

“I just think...” she pressed her lips together, then continued, voice gentle, “I think he just wants to see, make sure for himself that you’re alright, face to face—“

“He’ll want to know everything,” Newt murmured. “And then he’ll demand I go back to England.”

“Would it be such a bad thing?” she asked softly. “To see him for a bit—“

“I can’t leave. Not now, not when this is unfinished, not while he’s—“ Newt’s breath hitched in his chest. He swallowed, eyes drifting from the look of quiet, mournful understanding on Queenie’s face. “I can’t leave him.”

And if he spoke to his brother, his big brother who had always taken great care to be a shoulder to cry on—

Well.

There was a part of Newt, deep down, that felt as if this was all too big. Maybe he wasn’t meant for this. Newt loved discovering new things, loved chasing after creatures he’d only ever seen illustrated in old manuscripts. But he _knew_ magical creatures, and here, he felt laughably out of his depth.  

He wasn’t built for this constant suspicion, wasn’t built for a world of sabotage and quiet, sinister conspiracy. Percival had told him, once, that the reason he’d first trusted Newt was because he had clearly stumbled upon a den of wolves without knowing it.

And Newt couldn’t help but wonder if that was a bad thing.

Newt couldn’t help but wonder what Percival might be like if he didn’t have to be suspicious and guarded all the time.

Even with Newt. After all, learning about the things Percival kept close to his heart was like pulling teeth. That one night that felt so long ago, in front of the fire—it was the first he’d heard Percival say _anything_ about his family, and even that had been scarce. He hardly knew anything about Percival before the Percival he knew, the charming, guarded enigma.

Was that just how it was meant to be? Maybe...it was just the only way Percival knew how to act. Guarded. Constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, always attempting to prepare for the worst.

Jacob’s comment from earlier filtered through Newt’s thoughts. _Maybe it’s not the first time he’s dealt with stuff like this._

If that were true, that traitorous corner of Newt’s mind supplied, he was certainly better at it without Newt.

“Stop that,” Queenie whispered, almost harsh. Newt blinked at her, and her expression softened slightly. “Percival’s lucky to have you. And things are _not_ always going to be like this. Things _will_ get better, Newt, I can feel—“

The only warning Newt received was Queenie suddenly jolting ramrod straight, wide eyes darting to look at the door. He frowned at her. “What—”

The door burst open, a crackling surge of magic making Newt’s hair stand on end, and Tina strode in, a distinct look of fury on her face. “Of all the _unbelievable,_ ” she ground out, her fingers curling around the edge of the door and slamming it closed again, “self-righteous, _bogie-brained—UGH”_

Her magic sputtered uncontrollably again, and one of Queenie’s many pink lamps shot off of the ledge it was perched on and flew across the room. Jacob, with the air of someone who had had opportunities to practice, quickly turned, leaned over, and caught it before it shattered against the wall opposite.

“Tina!” Newt interrupted, bewildered. “Merlin, what—”

He was met with the brunt of Tina’s ire for a moment at the interruption, but what had Newt taking a step toward her, trepidation churning in his stomach, was the way that her expression briefly crumpled. She leant back heavily against the door, her right hand forming a tight fist and then releasing it. “He’s stepping down,” she grit out.

Newt stared at her, a dawning, creeping understanding clawing at the corners of his mind that he willfully shoved back. “What...?”

“Teen,” Queenie said, an edge to her voice, “maybe this isn’t the time.”

Tina blinked at her, seemingly processing the meaning slowly, then her eyes met Newt’s again, and she just looked so _sad,_ that look in her eyes beginning to border on pity, and finally understanding swept over him like a chill, like an ache.

“He’s...they...”

Stepping down.

Percival _loved_ his job, he’d fought so hard for it. He wouldn’t just give it up. Newt exhaled roughly, righteous anger building and crawling up his chest. “They can’t just do that to him—”

“No ones doing it to him,” Tina said, voice tired. “It’s...apparently Graves made some kind of deal.”

Newt went cold. Perhaps Percival had finally gotten tired of passing the time.

Jacob’s voice filtered through behind him, and he felt a hand brush his arm, but he shrugged it off. There was a roaring in his ears that drowned out concerned murmuring, gentle placations. “Excuse me,” he murmured, to no one in particular.

“Newt—”

Newt apparated into Dawlish’s office without a thought, only after the fact considering that it was strange he even _could._ He blinked at Dawlish for a moment, who was at his desk, reading from a hefty looking law book that levitated in front of him, his expression unsurprised and unimpressed as he looked away from it and up at Newt. “You should get your warding looked at,” Newt mumbled, after a brief silence.

“I thought you might drop by,” Dawlish answered drily, leaning back in the great, high-backed chair. He gestured to the chair opposite in invitation and Newt slowly drifted towards it. The room, magically tailored to serve as an office for Dawlish’s visit, vaguely reminded Newt of Theseus’ office at the ministry. There was a similar wood oak table, a steady warmth emerging from the fire burning in the corner. Newt could smell the remnants of chamomile tea in a teapot at the end of the desk, where a pile of paperwork had it cornered precariously close to the edge. Newt stared at it, sinking into the seat. He thought of the mundanity of chamomile tea, how he usually disliked mundanity, but now wished for it, so desperately. For once, he wanted gentle, peaceful boredom, and he wanted to share it.

It took a moment of concentration to draw his attention away from the teapot and focus on what Dawlish had said.

“I suppose, if you expected me, you know why I’m here,” he murmured, meeting Dawlish’s eyes.

“I’ve no doubt it’s to do with Graves’ resignation.”

“Resignation implies it was his choice,” Newt snapped back without thinking.

“It _was_ his choice. He chose to step down from the position in lieu of the trial—”

“A trial that was already rigged _against him_ —“

“Newt—“

“And I just—I thought—”

“Newt— _”_

“For a moment,” Newt said, his voice trembling, but louder than he’d intended, his throat thick, “when I first saw you here, I thought everything might _actually_ be alright, but you’re just like them, aren’t you?”

The magic reserved for the large law book stuttered and the book crashed onto the desk as Dawlish stared at Newt intently. The force of the heavy book rattling the desk sent the precariously placed teapot to the ground. It shattered when it hit the floor, the sound jarring, the echo of it even more so in the heavy silence that followed. “ _Them?”_ Dawlish asked carefully.

Newt swallowed, suddenly nervous in the silence. “Forget it.”

After a moment, a belated wave of Dawlish’s hand drew the ceramic fragments up into the air, slowly bringing them together again. “Yes, Newt, he proposed a deal, it was backed by President Piqcuery, and we accepted. I...truthfully a part of me thought you might be glad of it. That it is only this, and not prison, or worse.”

The reality of it, so blatantly stated, felt much like he’d been abruptly struck. Newt swallowed around the lump stuck in his throat.

“I...I’m—I just...I mean I didn’t think things would...” He cut off, and sighed roughly. “So that’s it then,” Newt conceded bitterly, after a beat. “He just...has to give up.”

Newt didn’t glance up, until the sound of something being tossed onto the desk in front of him drew his gaze. It was a nondescript folder, so thin Newt almost thought there was nothing in it at all, had there not been the edge of a piece of paper just barely sticking out. Newt blinked at it. “What...?”

“It often serves bureaucrats very well that bureaucracy itself is a slow moving machine,” Dawlish said simply.

Newt gaped up at him, feeling suddenly and very acutely lost, but also feeling a strong sense of deja vu, as intense as a punch to the gut. “I’m sorry?”

“His words,” Dawlish said. “He told me to tell you, should I see you,” he repeated slowly, “that it often serves bureaucrats very well that bureaucracy is a slow moving machine.”

Newt stared at him, suddenly and vividly recalling the moment, a few months ago, when Graves had been grinning at him across a table. When he had said, with an air of amused annoyance, _you know how slow the bureaucratic process can be._

“I couldn’t help but wonder what he meant by that,” Dawlish was saying. “Bureaucracy is a slow moving machine. It’s quite true. But it did seem an odd thing, that he’d want me to relay it to you. You see that phrase was churning in the back of my mind, and I couldn’t help but think while working _this_ case that slowest part of investigative bureaucracy is waiting on the paperwork. So then, I thought, perhaps Graves still had some things floating around, information just waiting for someone to pick them up from the right channels. And a little digging proved that some things had truly just been sitting in outgoing piles, just waiting for someone to find them,” Dawlish said, gesturing to the folder that lay between them.

Newt’s eyes dropped to it, and as soon as the disbelief ebbed he practically lunged for it. When he opened it, the first thing he saw was a name.

Erik Hagen.

“Now, I still don’t know exactly what he meant by that,” Dawlish was saying, through the roaring in Newt’s ears. “If he wanted me to find the contents of that file, or if he wanted _you_  to find them, or if it meant something else entirely, but,” Dawlish said, raising a brow, “it seems to me that Percival Graves is far from giving up.”

Newt stared incredulously, his heart in his throat. “You...?” He flipped through the contents, his hands shaking. A birth record, certificate of graduation, past places of residence, a few scattered pictures. Proof that the man from that warehouse _existed._ “A paper trail,” Newt breathed. It was more than he thought he’d get.

“It isn’t much,” Dawlish said, as if reading his thoughts, “but the man you named clearly does exist. If very sparsely. Technically, I have no grounds to investigate any further than this, than what’s already been found, but, given that I have easy access to it, I took it upon myself to check the international flume and muggle transport records on the past two weeks.”

Newt stared at him, heart in his throat. “And...?”

“Your man hasn’t left the country. Likely hasn’t even had a chance to leave the state.”

Newt took a shuddering breath. Hagen was still here, he existed and not only that, he currently existed _in New York._ He had, in his hands, the opportunity to fix everything.

It didn’t quite feel real.

“You’re letting me have this?” Newt breathed, wide-eyed.

Dawlish looked considering. “Let’s say...for the record, that you stumbled upon it in the auror bullpen.”

“No—what I mean is...” Newt swallowed. “ _Why_ are you letting me have this? I mean...didn’t you think...I thought—”

“You thought,” Dawlish said tiredly, expression long suffering, “that I would ignore the ardent testimony of someone I have known for years simply because it was deemed inadmissible in court.”

It wasn’t a question, but it helped that Dawlish was looking at him like he was a bit thick, rather than with a look of disappointment.

Still, Newt couldn’t help but bristle a bit, dropping his eyes to the table. “It seemed as though your mind had been made up on the matter.”

“Yes, well, Newt, the fact of the matter is I know you very well, but it did appear in that room as though you lied in order to protect Graves, whom everyone in the department agrees was particularly close with you. And frankly, Newt, I don’t think you would bat an eye even lying under oath for someone you believed was worth the risk.” Newt indignantly made to interrupt. “ _But,”_ Dawlish emphasized, giving Newt a look that had him begrudgingly leaning back in his chair, “it is because I know you so well that I also know you to have the most acute sense of what is right and what is _wrong_ than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Newt stared at him, hope beginning to bloom in his chest. “You believe me.”

Dawlish tilted his head the slightest bit, almost acquiescing. “I believe that there is something...very wrong with this case,” he said. “And apparently I am in the minority. Most are content with very quickly sweeping this under the rug.”

“And in doing so, ensuring that the truth stays buried?” Newt asked incredulously.

“To most,” Dawlish began, then, slowly, he emphasized, “to _them,_ ” giving Newt a pointed look, “the truth seems to be right in front of their faces and requires no digging at all, because it is a truth that meets expectations.”

“Expectations,” Newt repeated, not quite recognizing the cold undertone to his voice.

Dawlish gave a small, humorless smile. “You know. You, of all people, know all too well. Of course it was the werewolf. They’re savage creatures, haven’t you heard? It was the simplest solution, the easiest to digest. Just as the conclusion,” he said grimly, “that one of your creatures was responsible for the destruction of New York last year.” He raised an eyebrow. “Occam’s razor and stereotype are often tragically lumped together.”

“‘Clearly,’” Newt recalled lowly, the words tasting bitter in his mouth, “‘ the monthly toll was just too much.’”

“You know, I did find it curious,” Dawlish replied, a slow, pensive tone to his voice, “that I was assigned a partner I had never worked with before.”

Newt stared at him, wide-eyed. The brief statement had an undertone of causal suspicion. “What are you saying, that Coleson’s been bough—”

“I’m not saying _anything,_ ” Dawlish was quick to interject, voice firm, “as that would be slander. But an investigator, intended to be impartial, overly attached to a specific line of thought is...worrisome.”

“So what is it that you _can_ say?” Newt asked shortly.

Dawlish looked grave when he finally said, lowly, “that I believe this is a delicate, and very dangerous situation, Newt. And I want you to be very careful.”

Newt took a deep breath. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know that already.

He nodded curtly. “Of course.” Newt stood, clutching the folder to his chest like a lifeline. “Thank you, for this,” he said earnestly. “It couldn’t have been easy to collect quietly.”

Dawlish quirked a brow. “I’ve never seen that folder before in my life.”

Newt huffed. “Right,” he assured wryly. He hesitated, before asking, unable to contain the hopeful tone, “if...if there won’t be a trial...does that mean Percival is still under house arrest?”

“Given the nature of his...circumstances,” Dawlish said, seeming to censure himself when he looked up at Newt, “the deal he made requires him to be under guard for the next six consecutive full moons. It was an impossible clause to get rid of because some remain under the belief that the hidebehind attacks were not, in fact, due to a hidebehind at all.” Newt couldn’t quite hide his wince. Percival hadn’t even wanted _Newt_ to be there for the change. Once again, Newt wished Percival hadn’t felt the need to make the deal at all, wished he could have done something sooner, found something—

“But,” Dawlish continued, “there’s no evidence of it, and neither you nor O’Brien’s family are pressing charges for the warehouse, so...apart from those nights...Percival Graves is a free man.”

It was such a disorienting mix of good and bad news, and yet, Newt could not help his breathless, dizzying relief at the good. Newt nodded again. “Thank you,” Newt said genuinely.

He turned to the door, but Dawlish’s voice stopped him. “Newt...what exactly is the extent of your involvement in this?”

Newt blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, if everything you’ve said is true, then we face a conspiracy to frame a man for murder. And I don’t mean Auror O’Brien, his death has been deemed accidental, no matter what that bloody Coleson tried to scare you with. And I’m not talking about those deaths in the park either. It was intended to be _your_ murder we’d be dealing with.” There was a heavy pause. “Do you understand that?”

Newt remembered the terror, in that warehouse, remembered looking up into feral features and being certain he was about to die. Just a pawn in a game larger than he could see.

“Completely,” Newt replied, voice flat.

The corner of Dawlish’s mouth turned downward, his brow furrowing. “Then...Newt, my advice to you would be to hand that folder to Graves, and walk away.”

Newt almost scoffed at the suggestion, his immediate reaction one of prickling indignation, but he paused, let the words sink in.

Because wasn’t that what he’d worried he might do all along?

When Leta and Newt were threatened with expulsion from Hogwarts, he didn’t wait for the decision to come through. He took the fall, and he left. In the war, his dragons were shipped away from the front or killed before he could stop it, and he left. Credence died, despite everything, Jacob forgot, despite everything, and in spite of Tina’s hopeful looks and Queenie’s not-so-subtle nudges, he _left._

Oh.

“Let me ask you a question,” Newt began, his voice distant to his own ears. He wasn’t even quite sure of what was coming out of his mouth even as he said the words. “If it had been Margaret that this had happened to, even...even before you knew her as well as you do, before you got married, before you even realized you wanted to. If it had been her,” Newt asked slowly, “would you walk away?”

Dawlish stared at him. “You really want to make that comparison?”

“I do,” Newt answered, nearly startling even himself with the immediacy of his answer.

Dawlish eyed him, then let out a long heavy breath. “No,” he said finally. “No, I would not.”

Newt nodded to himself. “That’s what I thought,” he murmured.

“And yet, it’s very easy to answer that question retrospectively,” Dawlish said warningly. “You don’t have that luxury.”

“No,” Newt conceded, and yet, he was suddenly calm with an easy certainty. The small smile that came to his face was perhaps a little helpless and, at the same time, a little grim. “But I think I know the answer all the same.”

* * *

He left the office not quite paying attention, first distracted by his thoughts, and then by the scarce documents in his hands. He brushed through them with his fingers, the scrape of rifling paper the only thing that reached his ears.

His eyes skirted over old addresses from past leases, prior places of employment in the state. He could ask Tina to get some aurors to search them, ask around, flash pictures. And there was that potion shop that they knew Hagen had gotten ingredients from. Newt could start there.

The man from the warehouse could be found, and Newt was going to find him.

Newt didn’t realize he had taken a wrong turn, missing the apparition rooms and instead turning into the congressional wing, until one of the doors to his right opened up and he nearly rammed into it. “Sorry about that, son,” the man exiting said brusquely, but not unkindly, clapping Newt on the back as he moved past.

Newt blinked, becoming suddenly aware of the few others that milled about in the hall, talking amongst themselves, dressed in suits that dripped with wealth.

Becoming suddenly, acutely, chillingly aware that he recognized the man who leaned against the wall just ten feet away, his arms crossed as he spoke easily with the man in front of him.

In fact, the man Minister Coleson spoke to, the man with his back to Newt, was familiar as well, with his expensive suit, tan skin, and the razor edge of a disarmingly charming smile Newt could just barely see on his face.

Newt stood, paralyzed, unable to lurch back into motion. Coleson’s eyes briefly met his as they unconsciously scanned the room, but recognition flashed in them, and they returned.

And Coleson said something to the other man that had him beginning to turn, and Newt saw the curve of a nose and the slow, slanting stretch of a smile—

Newt whirled around, heart hammering in his chest, willing himself to walk at a normal pace and to not draw any more attention to himself, even though he could already feel Morgan Weiss’ green eyes burning holes into his back.

He wondered, his mind buzzing frantically, if Weiss was still wearing that curving smile as he watched him.

Newt didn’t know if it would be better or worse if he was.


End file.
